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LEFT IN CHARGE 


BY 

VICTOR L. WHITECHURCH ^ 

II 

Author of 

“The Canon in Residence,” ‘‘The Locum Tenens,” 
“Concerning Himself,” “Off the Main Road,” etc. 



Garden City New York 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY' 
1912 



All rights reserved including that of 
translation into foreign languages , 
including the Scandinavian 

Copyright , 1912, hy 
Doubleday, Page & Company 


c/ 

ru 


gCI.A320676 


LEFT IN CHARGE 








♦ 








LEFT IN CHARGE 


CHAPTER I 

The Vicar sat bolt upright in his study chair. A 
fine old man, with white whiskers of an ancient 
cut, bald head, and clear, determined-looking gray 
eyes. His usual kindly smile had just given place 
to a compression of the lips and a look of resolution 
that had earned for him, on previous occasions, 
the remark of one of his parishioners : 

“The Vicar, ’a be tur’ble orkard when ’a shuts 
his mouth up tight. There ’ent no gettin’ round 
’un, once ’a maakes up his moind.” 

He was choosing to be “tur’ble orkard” at the 
present juncture. Opposite to him sat Doctor 
Hammond, tapping his gaitered leg and spurred 
boot with his riding-whip, a weather-beaten, 
sandy-haired individual whose lips were curling 
into a little smile under his straggling moustache. 
He had known the old man intimately any time 
these twenty years, and was well aware of the 
meaning of those compressed lips. 


3 


4 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Well,” he said, “that’s what I think about you. 
And that’s my advice.” 

The Vicar brought a thin hand down on the arm 
of his chair. 

“It’s no use, Hammond,” he said, emphatically, 
“ I’m not going away — at least for the time you 
mention. Now I don’t mind a fortnight or three 
weeks at Bournemouth, or anywhere else on the 
South Coast you think suitable, but your idea is 
preposterous.” 

“My dear sir!” replied the Doctor, using his 
particular formula of impressiveness and empha- 
sizing each sentence by striking his whip with the 
palm of his hand, “you’re a most outrageous 
patient! You were ill in the spring: you wouldn’t 
rest in the summer, as I told you to do: now the 
autumn’s here, you’re run down and your cough 
troubles you — your tubes are out of order. You 
must knock off work and go to the South of France 
for the winter!” 

“I’m no worse than old Bob Grice,” answered 
the Vicar, “why don’t you advise him to go to the 
Riviera ? ” 

“First, because he’s got no money, and you 
have; and secondly, because he isn’t so foolish as 
you are. He lies in bed and lets his missus wait 
on him.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 5 

The Vicar smiled grimly, appreciating the 
retort. 

“He hasn’t a parish to look after,” he replied. 
“How can I leave my people for three or four 
months?” 

Doctor Hammond was nothing if not blunt. 

“My dear sir,” he said, “your people be hanged! 
They’d very much rather you left ’em for three or 
four months than that you departed from ’em till 
the Day of Judgment. I’ll say that for ’em.” 

The Vicar brought his hand down again on the 
chair arm. 

“I’ve been Vicar here for thirty-four years, and 
I’ve never been absent for more than three weeks 
at a time — two Sundays.” 

“Bad habit,” replied the Doctor; “do ’em good 
to hear a change of sermons — and they’d appre- 
ciate you all the more for it.” 

“ I’ve weathered a worse storm,” said the Vicar, 
reverting to the central topic; “I shall soon be all 
right. I zvon’t go abroad!” 

Doctor Hammond laughed. 

“You’re a shocking example to your flock! 
How’d you like it if any one said ‘I won’t’ to your 
face when you gave ’em good advice?” 

“Humph!” growled the other, a twinkle in his 
eye. 


6 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Tell you what,” went on the Doctor, getting 
up from his seat, “there’s only one thing to be 
done about you.” 

“What?” 

“I’m going to have a talk with Miss Wren- 
field.” 

“Nonsense.” 

“Ah, but I promised her I would. Meanwhile, 
you think things over. I’ll drop in again next 
week. There’s no immediate hurry, you know. 
Good-bye!” 

In the garden the Vicar’s daughter was cutting 
flowers for the church vases. A tall, upright, 
plainly dressed woman. Every one knew she was 
exactly thirty-two years old, for the simple reason 
that she had been born two years after her father 
had come to the parish. The fact was indelibly 
chronicled in the neighbourhood. Some of her 
friends said she looked it. But friends are often 
more unkind than true. 

She came forward from the flower-bed to meet 
the Doctor as the latter walked across the lawn. 

“Well,” she said, “what do you really think 
about father? Do tell me.” 

Doctor Hammond put his riding whip behind 
his back, grasped it with both hands, and looked 
her straight in the face. She had the same steady, 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


7 


clear eyes as her father — the same little curve at 
the corners of her mouth. 

“He’s very much run down. I told him so.” 

“You don’t think it’s serious?” 

She caught her breath a little, as she asked. 
She knew this blunt Doctor well, and that he 
would tell her the absolute truth. 

“No. And needn’t be if he takes reasonable 
care. He’s an old man — but he’s mighty tough. 
Splendid constitutional record.” 

“Can you give him back his strength? I do 
hope you can, Doctor Hammond.” 

The Doctor shook his head. 

“/ can’t. ’Tisn’t a case of physic. The prob- 
lem rests with you, Miss Wrenfield.” 

“How?” 

“He ought not to winter in Adlington, it’s too 
cold. I want him to go to the South of France — 
but he’s just as obstinate as he can be about it.” 

Miss Wrenfield smiled. 

“And you think I might persuade him?” 

“I should give you a reputation for the same 
family characteristic.” 

“Obstinacy?” 

He gave a little bow. 

“Oh, well — strength of mind, eh? But, seri- 
ously, you must try and get him away. I know 


8 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


it’s no use talking to Mrs. Wrenfield — she can’t 
persuade him. 

“Look here,” he went on, “the thing can easily 
be arranged. Surely you can get a parson to take 
the duty for a few months ? And I’m sure it will 
set the dear old man up. Do him good to get 
away from his work and have a thorough rest.” 

He paced beside her up and down the lawn, ex- 
plaining the situation. Presently he pulled out 
his watch. 

“I must be off. Got a big round before I 
finish. Well, there’s the case, my dear young 
lady. It’s in your hands!” 

“I’ll do all I can.” 

“Good. I knew you would. Good-bye!” 

“Capable woman that,” he remarked to himself 
as he made his way to the Vicarage stable for his 
horse. “Quite equal to running the parish by 
herself, bar services and preaching. Pity Paul 
was a bit bigoted on that point, and that his 
teaching about it has caught on!” 

In another minute he was cantering through 
the village street, nodding to sundry hat touch- 
ings. For the Doctor was a man to be respectfully 
greeted anywhere within a ten-mile radius. 

Miss Wrenfield finished cutting her flowers, 
arranged them very stiffly in two brass vases in 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


9 


the “parish room,” carried the two vases into the 
church close by and placed them exactly equi- 
distant on either side of the altar cross, carefully 
removed a stray petal which fell on the altar, gave 
the said cross a rub with a bit of chamois leather 
she carried in the basket on her arm, put it back, 
surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction in that 
it was mathematically correct, and then proceeded 
to lay out “choir notices” for the next day’s ser- 
vices — a large one for her father’s desk, with the 
hymns and chants in big figures — the old man 
absolutely refused to wear glasses in church — 
and smaller ones for the men and boys. 

Also, she saw to it that the choir-books were 
arranged in precise rows, removed a “marker” 
from the hymn-book of the eldest lad — a non- 
ecclesiastical marker in the shape of the picture of 
a ballet-girl extracted from a penny packet of 
cigarettes — and made a mental note to administer 
the necessary rebuke to the said boy for his un- 
seemliness; found the lessons in the lectern Bible, 
and the Psalms and collects in her father’s prayer- 
book, and then went into the vestry to fetch a 
surplice which she remembered wanted a few 
stitches. 

She did it all so carefully — so thoroughly — 
forgetting nothing. It was part of the routine of 


10 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


her whole life and, in her quiet way, she loved doing 
it. The church, the Vicarage, the parish — these 
were, and always had been, her life’s centres. It 
was difficult for her to imagine existence apart 
from either of them. Everything she took up 
was done in the same quiet, precise, methodical 
way. Her class registers, her account books, her 
little “nests” of “parochial” “household” “pri- 
vate” drawers were models of order and regularity. 

During the whole of her life in the remote vil- 
lage she had never known a break in the order of 
things. The same services in the church, the 
same classes and meetings on their regular days or 
in their regular seasons, the same inner round of 
parochial visiting, the same outer round of sum- 
mer tennis parties and winter dinners in the neigh- 
bourhood, the same church festivals, the same 
Vicarage birthdays and feasts — an unending, 
unvarying pilgrim’s progress from Advent to 
Lent, from Easter to “Stir up Sunday”; unevent- 
ful, as the world calls eventfulness, and yet, to 
her, never without interest. A narrow horizon, 
perhaps, but often those who dwell within the 
compass of narrow horizons find their lives the 
most complete. It is the breaking beyond the 
horizon that brings to us our limitations as well as 
our freedom. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


11 


On the way back to the Vicarage she found her 
father, accompanied by her mother, faring forth 
as they had done any time these thirty years, for 
a round of parochial visits, the old Vicar walking 
a pace or two in front of his wife, his hat pulled 
down over his eyes and a big white woollen com- 
forter around his throat. 

Mrs. Wrenfield was a little shaky woman with 
an iron constitution and a pliable will. Although 
she looked frail, she had never had a day’s serious 
illness in her life. One of her peculiarities was 
that she never seemed to be able to hold things in 
her hands for any length of time. If she crossed a 
room, down dropped her handkerchief; if she 
walked up the aisle on Sundays, her prayer-book 
fell flop on the old stones; at the present moment it 
was her umbrella. 

Her daughter stooped and picked it up for her; 
the Vicar walked slowly on. 

“Have you heard what Doctor Hammond has 
said about dear father? It’s upset me so much. 
He cannot go abroad — he won't go abroad, 
Gertrude.” 

“Now don’t you worry, mother dear. We 
must talk things over by and by. There’s no 
immediate hurry.” 

“Poor, dear father,” replied the old lady, shak- 


12 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


ing her head, “he loves his parish so much — he 
says nothing will induce him ” 

“Come along, Sophia, come along !” cried the 
Vicar, turning half round. 

“Yes, dear — yes, dear,” and she followed him 
out of the gate with a quaint little trot. 

Gertrude Wrenfield watched them till they 
turned a corner, a queer little smile on her face. 

“The dear old things,” she murmured to her- 
self, “but they do want managing! Well,” she 
went on, with complacent thoughts of her own 
little world, “and so do most people, I suppose.” 

It was generally considered in the village, and 
considered not unkindly — for they liked it — 
that Miss Wrenfield understood the art well. She 
managed the choir, she managed the Sunday 
School, she managed her Girls’ Friendly Society 
and her lads’ class — the latter were much in awe 
of her, and only classed her a degree below the vil- 
lage policeman, or, perhaps, a degree above him, 
for she had won most of their hearts, and he 
couldn’t be expected to do that — she managed 
sundry homes in the parish, even unto the up- 
bringing of babies, and she managed, in a quiet 
way, the home in which she lived. 

As a specimen thereof she went indoors, retired 
to her own little sanctum, and carefully and 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


13 


thoughtfully wrote a letter. This she placed in 
an envelope and addressed to: 

“ The Right Reverend, 

The Lord Bishop of Norchester. ,, 

“ There !” she said, with a look of satisfaction 
as she stuck a stamp in the corner. 

When Gertrude Wrenfield said the word 
“ There !” in that particular tone of voice, it was 
a sure index to the fact of something accomplished, 
something done. 

Meanwhile the Vicar and his wife perambulated 
the village, paying sundry visits to cottages. 
These visits closely resembled one another. A 
couple of chairs were wiped clean with an apron. 
The Vicar’s health asked after, and the health of 
the inmates of the home given at length. 

“No, mum, I b’ent no better. I sims to get 
th’ pain more o’ nights. And Tommy, he’ve been 
pretty middlin’ this last week. Doant sim to 
fancy his vittles. John, ’a ketched a ter’ble bad 
cold a Fridaay; out on the Downs ’a were in the 
marnin’ in that storm. I was moast afraid ’a’d 
have to goo on th’ club, but ’a wunt, not if ’a can 
help it.” 

To all and sundry of which complaints the old 
couple gave sympathetic ears and kindly advice. 
The Vicar knew so well that true pastoral visitation 


14 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


of his flock implied the art of listening more than 
that of exhortation. For thirty-four years he had 
heard the little worries of little lives patiently. 
And he had his reward. 

“’Tis nice to see the Vicar now and agen,” they 
would say, “’a sims to understand we folks.” 

The understanding of folks is, after all, to be 
willing to receive and share their troubles and their 
joys. Not that this, however, was always the 
case with the Vicar. He had his black sheep as 
well as his white ones. A country parish is no 
ideal little world. Life may be stagnant to the 
outside eye, but those who live and move and 
have their being within rustic surroundings will 
tell you that human nature is not much better 
and not much worse than in the greater world. 

They loved the Vicar, however, did his more 
faithful sheep, in their strange, secretive, undem- 
onstrative way, because they felt instinctively 
that he was so much one of themselves. And so 
he was. True, he read his Times and his Guar- 
dian scrupulously, kept in touch with the outside 
world, gave his family a resume of parliamentary 
debates with the running comment of a strict Tory 
of the bygone school, preached occasionally on 
the topics of the day — such as stray earthquakes, 
deaths of the great ones, and so forth, treating such 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


15 


topics as though no halfpenny daily or Sunday 
weekly had made its advent in the village — he 
never dreamed for an instant that the villagers 
read news for themselves, so great was his antique 
simplicity — and even, on rare occasions, paid 
visits himself to that outer world, either a week or 
two at the seaside, or a few days in London, spent, 
for the most part, inside the reading-room of the 
British Museum, while his wife and daughter 
“shopped.” Oh, yes, he was pardonably proud 
of the consciousness of the great events of the 
earth. 

But, after all, the chief interest in life belonged 
to the little domain in which he moved. He laid 
down his Times , or closed the volume he was read- 
ing, to think of the nearer “great events.” Jim 
Thatcher, the poacher, being caught red-handed 
— or, rather, “hare-pocketed” — Sally Love- 
joy’s periodic attacks of rheumatism, the advent 
of a new baby, the burial of an old parishioner in 
the quiet churchyard beneath the gnarled yew 
tree, Farmer G ringer’s pigs laid up with the swine 
fever — these were the burning realities of life, to 
be discussed from every point of view over the 
fireside o’ winter nights or on the garden seat o’ 
summer afternoons with his faithful partner in 
life. 


16 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


The old couple always finished their simple day 
with cups of cocoa in the drawing room. He was 
sipping his, peacefully enough, that evening, when 
his daughter laid down her piece of embroidery on 
the table, rolled it up, replaced her thimble and 
other impedimenta in her work-basket, smoothed 
her frock a little, and made a quiet but startling 
announcement. 

“I wrote to the Bishop this afternoon, father.” 

Mrs. Wrenfield put down her cup and ejaculated, 
“What?” 

The Vicar performed a similar action and ex- 
claimed : 

“You wrote to the Bishop ? Why? What about?” 

“I told him,” went on Gertrude imperturbably, 
“exactly what Doctor Hammond said about you, 
and what you ought to do. I knew very well you 
would never do so yourself. And I’ve asked him 
if he knows of any one who would take charge of 
the parish while you were away.” 

“But, my dear Gertrude — it’s preposterous. 
You had no right to do it. And, besides, I’m not 
going.” 

“Oh, father dear ” began Mrs. Wrenfield, 

but stopped short as he broke in: 

“I shall write to the Bishop by the first post to- 


morrow. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


17 


“My dear father/’ said Gertrude, laying her 
hand on his, “you’ll please do nothing of the sort. 
You’re going to be very good and do exactly as 
you’re told; and you’re coming back by Easter 
quite well and strong again.” 

Mrs. Wrenfield rose from her chair, crossed the 
room, dropping her handkerchief as usual during 
her passage, and seated herself by her husband’s 
side. 

“Indeed, dear, there’s something in what Ger- 
trude says.” 

In all Vicarage discussions she generally came 
round to her daughter’s point of view. 

“Of course there is,” said Gertrude with a smile; 
and she went on to lay down the law to her par- 
ents. It took some time to turn the tide of the old 
man’s obstinacy, but at length he began to show 
signs of wavering. 

“But, my dear Gertrude, supposing — mind, 
I only say supposing , for the sake of argument, 
that we go abroad for a couple of months ” 

“Three or four months, father!” 

“Very well — for the sake of argument, then, 
three months. How is the parish to get on? It’s 
all very well to ask the Bishop to find a man, but 
how could he see to things properly, not knowing 
the place or the people, while we are away? Why 


18 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


— why” — he went on, straining his mind for an 
instance — “how could he give away the Christmas 
charities? Or arrange for special preachers in 
Lent? Or remonstrate with Jim Thatcher if the 
latter fell into one of his drunken fits ? Or — or 

— a hundred and one things 1 The parish would 
suffer appallingly.” 

It was not that the old man was boastful or un- 
duly egotistical. He had only fallen into the com- 
mon delusion that assails many a country parson 
in a remote village — and assails other people as 
well as parsons — to wit: that when it has pleased 
God to call us into a state, we are, and ever shall 
be, indispensable in that particular state. 

Gertrude Wrenfield smiled — a little smile of 
determination that meant a great deal. 

“You needn’t worry, father dear,” she said 
quietly. “You and mother will go to the Riviera. 
I shall remain here.” 

“ You will stay?” 

“Why, of course I shall. There must be some 
one to look after things.” She had fallen into the 
same delusion — it was hereditary. “Of course 
there will be a clergyman to do the work. By the 
way, we must think of some place where he can 
lodge; but there are many reasons why I should 
stay as well. I know so much more about the 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


19 


parish than a stranger. And it will make it easier 
in every way.” 

It is a little doubtful, if the Bishop had dis- 
patched a youthful or a nervous cleric that even- 
ing, whether, in face of the resolute announcement 
of Gertrude Wrenfield, he would have accepted the 
post. 


CHAPTER II 


“This House to Let!” It was roughly chalked on 
a bit of board nailed to a post, and the latter was 
stuck into the garden just inside the gate. The 
house itself stood back some fifty yards from the 
road, and was about a quarter of a mile outside the 
village. It was a fair-sized, picturesque old build- 
ing, half timbered and whitewashed, with well- 
browned tile roof. 

The Vicar paused in his walk with his daughter 
and leaned over the gate leading into the front 
garden. 

“Ah, me,” he said, with a little sigh, “it seems 
sad not to see old Peskett sunning himself in the 
porch — a worthy old fellow, a worthy old fellow!” 

He had laid Job Peskett to rest a couple of 
months ago. He felt the departure of any of his 
parishioners; most of all the older ones. 

“I wonder whether Ilbury will be able to let 
it,” said Gertrude. 

“Ah, I wonder. He told me he had put it into 
agents’ hands. Let us have a look round the gar- 
den, Gertrude.” 


20 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


21 


With a certain quiet air of possession that long 
years spent in the little village had given him, he 
pushed open the gate and walked slowly up the 
path, followed by his daughter. As they neared 
the house the front door opened and out came a 
tall, thin man, with short, dark, mutton-chop whis- 
kers, and sharp, shrewd-looking eyes. He wore 
an old white marketing coat and a faded straw hat, 
which he touched as his gaze fell on the old 
Vicar. 

“Ah, good day, Ilbury. We’re trespassing, 
eh?” 

“Not at all, Vicar ” 

He paused suddenly, looking over his shoulder. 
There followed him out of the house a well-dressed 
man of about fifty, with a fresh complexion and 
blue eyes, and a fair moustache carefully waxed at 
the ends. Behind him came a girl who might 
still have been in her teens. 

“I call it a perfectly sweet old place, father — 
and I think ” 

She stopped short on seeing the Vicar and Miss 
Wrenfield. Her father, with an instinctive polite- 
ness in the presence of age, raised his hat. Mark 
Ilbury hesitated, partly on account of his natural 
rustic awkwardness anent any ceremony of intro- 
duction, partly because of the equally natural 


22 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


reticence of his peculiar species. Then he said 
abruptly, with a jerk of his thumb toward the 
stranger: 

“This is Mr. Phillips, Vicar — come to see about 
renting Hill Croft — if he likes it. Our Vicar, sir 
— and Miss Wrenfield.” 

He stepped a little to one side, with the air of 
a man who has done his duty and made a disclosure 
against his will. The Vicar, who was of the polite 
old school, raised his hat, bowed courteously, and 
extended his hand. 

“Indeed?” he said. “We were only just now 
wondering whether the place would be let. And 
are you really thinking of taking it?” 

The other smiled. 

“We’ve come down from town to have a look at 
it,” he replied; “I am thinking of taking a house 
in the country somewhere, and the description 
looked promising.” 

The Vicar hesitated just for a moment. The 
country breeds a propensity to heave half a brick 
at a stranger. Not that the old man would have 
done this, even metaphorically, but the bare idea 
of the import of a new parishioner from the outer 
world almost took his breath away. Such an event 
had not happened for years. 

“You would find Adlington a most charming 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


23 


and healthy village,” he said, with sincerity. “ We 
think it the pick of the Down country. And as 
for the situation of Hill Croft — well, you see it 
for yourself!” 

“I do, indeed.” 

“There isn’t a better view in Adlington than 
from here,” broke in the farmer, with an approving 
glance at the Vicar for his recommendation. 

“Will you allow me to introduce my step- 
daughter,” said Mr. Philips to the Vicar. “Mil- 
dred,” he went on, “has as much voice in the 
matter as I. She is not very strong, and we want 
to find a healthy, bracing home for her.” 

“It doesn’t feel as if one could ever be ill here,” 
said the girl. 

Miss Wrenfield looked at her a little closely. 
In her eyes such a new addition to the little circle 
of the village represented a possible Sunday-school 
teacher — and other similar things. The same 
trend of thought was in the Vicar’s mind. Was 
this man Philips a Churchman? It was most 
important. He could not very well ask him point 
blank, but he turned the subject of conversation 
to the church. Had Mr. Philips seen it? 

Mr. Philips smiled. 

“We really haven’t had time. We drove out 
from Wellborough just to look at the house and 


24 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


village — but, from the outside, it looks exceedingly 
picturesque. Quite ancient, I should imagine.” 

The Vicar drew himself up proudly. 

“We discovered a Saxon doorway in the North 
Aisle — about twenty years ago,” he said. He 
rarely mentioned the church to strangers and ad- 
joining clergy without stating this fact. It was 
an episode. And more — no other church in the 
neighbourhood had a Saxon doorway. 

“If you have time,” he went on, “I should be 
pleased to show it you — and if we can offer you 
both tea at the Vicarage, Mrs. Wrenfield will be 
delighted.” 

Mr. Philips glanced at his watch. 

“Thank you very much — but we have only 
just time to catch our train at Wellborough. But 
perhaps we shall have another opportunity. We 
are inclined to like the place.” 

“You won’t find a better — anywhere round,” 
declared Mark Ilbury emphatically. He knew 
the chances of letting were small. 

So the Vicar and his daughter left them with 
the farmer. On the way back the old man 
could talk of nothing else. Both agreed that 
Philips was a gentleman. That was half- 
way. The question of Churchmanship was an- 
other matter. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


25 


“A pretty girl,” remarked the Vicar. 

“H’m, yes — I think she was. Quite young. 
I wonder where they came from.” 

“Ah. And I wonder whether Ilbury will let 
them the house. Dear me — what changes one 
sees in Adlington, to be sure. Poor old Peskett! 
. . . They could have his seat in church,” he 

added, as an afterthought. 

“Yes. If ” said Gertrude. 

“We must hope for the best,” said the Vicar. 

In the evening Mark Ilbury called, and was 
shown into the study. 

“I thought I’d call and tell you that Mr. Philips 
closed wi’ the bargain before he left, Vicar.” 

“Oh, did he? I see; yes. So he’s taken Hill 
Croft?” 

The farmer nodded slowly. 

“Yes,” he said, “took it for a year, that is to 
say. I told him he couldn’t expect me to lay out 
any money on it as ’twas uncertain if he’d stay 
longer. So we came to terms.” 

“Do you know anything about him?” asked the 
Vicar. 

“I’ve got a reference from his banker,” said Il- 
bury. I shall write to-morrow. He seemed all 
right.” 

“Is he — er — a Churchman, do you think?” 


26 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


A sly little smile hovered round the farmer’s 
mouth. 

“ That’s for you to tackle, Vicar — though I 
hope he is. ’Twill make a bit o’ difference to the 
collection, maybe, if he was to come to church 
reg’lar.” 

The Vicar was the shepherd of souls. The 
Churchwarden thought of the souls’ cash — 
which was always acceptable for church expenses. 

The farmer rose to go, hesitated, and then 
said: 

“I hear you’re going to leave us for a bit, 
Vicar.” 

“Oh — I don’t know. They want me to, 
Ilbury, they want me to — but I don’t like the 
idea.” 

“No more do we,” blurted out the farmer, 
“though if ’tis to cure that cough o’ yours we must 
put up wi ’t. But we shall miss ’ee sorely, Vicar 
— ah, and be glad to see ’ee come back. We don’t 
want no on else in th’ pulpit.” 

He shook the Vicar’s hand hastily and went out. 
He did not often give vent to outspoken expres- 
sions of feeling. No one did at Adlington. But 
the old Vicar understood, and brushed the sus- 
picion of a tear from his eye before he returned to 
the drawing room. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


27 


Whereupon the subject of the new tenant at 
Hill Croft came to the front. For the advent of a 
stranger is a big event in the life of a village; some- 
thing to be both discussed and resented. 

Clannish is your rustic, clannish is your farmer, 
aye, and clannish in course of time becomes your 
country parson. A stranger is an intruder upon 
the “clan.” He may spend his money in the vil- 
lage, employ local labour, subscribe to the coal 
club and the fund for the sick and needy — they 
will take it all, doggedly rather than thankfully, 
according to their wont. But it will be years be- 
fore they cease entirely to say of him: 

“’A yent one o’ we!” 

So while the Vicar discussed the advent of this 
Mr. Philips with his wife and daughter in the 
Vicarage, the same topic, when circulated about 
the village — and it did not take long for that to 
happen — served for the taproom of the “Wheat- 
sheaf.” 

Elisha Norris, the landlord, sat, shirt-sleeved, 
in his wooden armchair with his wooden red face 
and short clay pipe, and the regulars sat around 
the table, contemplating pots of ale with fixed stare 
and hazarding speculation. 

Which were summed up sagely by Elisha Norris, 
just before closing-time, thus: 


28 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Ah! N’ara one knows nought about ’un. If 
there was ought about ’un as ’ara one knowed 
’t’ood be diff’rent, look ’ee. But there ent. If 
we bides a bit, likely as not we shall know summat 
about ’un. First plaace, ’a’s taken Hill Croft. 
Second plaace, they says as ’a’s a-goin’ to live in it. 
Well, ’a can’t live up at Hill Croft and us know 
nought about ’un, can ’a?” 

“That’s right, ’Lisha — ah, that’s right enough !” 
chorused the audience approvingly. 

“Let’s bide till ’a comes then. What moare 
can us do?” 

This was obvious. And not only obvious, but 
reasonable. And not only reasonable, but unan- 
swerable, except by the great monosyllabic retort 
of wisdom: 

“Ah!” 

“Then you’d best all be gettin’ whoam. The 
church clock’s a-strikin’ ten. Good-night, all.” 

He rose from his seat, threw the door open, and 
held it so till all had passed out in single file, with 
slow, regretful steps. 

“What a man ’Lisha be,” ejaculated Sam Brown 
when they were outside; “’a doan’t saay much 
when other folks is a-talkin’, but ’a moast alius 
gets the last word — and then there ’ent no argyin’ 
agen ’un!” 


CHAPTER III 


The village of Adlington stood, tree-shrouded, on 
the top of the Downs. That is to say that it oc- 
cupied practically the centre of a huge piece of 
broken tableland. For miles around, outside the 
circle of arable cultivation, stretched the rolling, 
grassy downs, specked here and there with an out- 
lying cottage or farmhouse, flanked, generally, 
on the southwest with a rough clump of pines to 
protect it from the prevailing winds. 

To get to Adlington your best way was to take 
train to Wellborough, the little market town away 
down in the lowland country, through which the 
river showed its silver streaks as you looked across 
it from the Downs. Then you had your choice of 
two ways: If you were driving, you would take 
the road that wound about through many a twist 
and turning till it made an abrupt ascent some 
three miles from Adlington and thence passed 
straight across through a hedgeless country to the 
village. This meant a drive of some seven miles. 
But, if you were walking, you shortened it by a 
good two — that is to say if, being a stranger, you 
29 


30 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


were lucky enough to find the path that turned off 
from the road half a mile or so out of Wellborough 

— they ploughed up a good bit of it every autumn 

— and followed it till you were up on the open 
Downs. There you would find a network of 
sheep tracks, odd paths, leading, some of them, to 
the lonely cottages, and others, apparently, to 
nowhere at all. You might ask a stray rustic the 
way to Adlington when you were really within a 
couple of miles of the village, only to receive a 
puzzled stare and a reply that he’d “never heerd 
tell o’ such plaace.” Reason being that it was 
locally known as ^r^lin’ton, with a stress and a 
long pause on the first syllable — and if, by some 
chance, the said rustic discovered your destination 
he would jerk his thumb southward and say: 

“That be ArdYm’ ton — over yonder,” and go on 
his way, or stare after you as you went on yours, 
thinking you a fool for your lack of knowledge of 
the rightful pronunciation of the King’s English. 
Maybe, also, he would give you a shout as you 
went on : 

“Maake straight for Muster Gringer’s black 
barn, and you can’t goo wrong!” 

And if you knew which was Muster Gringer’s 
black barn you would scorn all misleading foot- 
paths and steer for it in a direct line across the 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


31 


rough, mole-humped turf, until you presently 
found yourself treading a defined track — heaven 
knows where it began — and the track shortly be- 
came broader, with cart-ruts, and then developed 
into a stony roadway, and afterward, when hedges 
began, into quite a highway, and then — well, 
when you turned the corner by the “ Wheatsheaf,” 
there was the church tower straight in front of you, 
halfway up the straggling street. 

Just on the brow of the hill that edged the 
Downs stood a little old man, motionless as a 
statue. He was dressed in well-worn corduroy 
trousers, a bit of string tied tightly below each 
knee, an old brown jacket, and a wide-awake soft 
hat. Over his shoulder he carried, slung on a cord, 
a battered basket and a thicket, military coat with 
brass buttons — bought cheap from some odd- 
ments of rejected Government contract. In his 
hand was a long, rough stick, with a crook at the 
end, and by him lay his sheep-dog, stretched out, 
but alert. Close behind him tinkled the sheep 
bells — the flock straggling over the Downs. 

He had a queer little wrinkled face, with a 
scraggy halo of iron-gray hair a-down his cheeks 
and round the under part of his chin, leaving the 
rest of that appendage and his upper lip clean 
shaven. His dark eyes, set beneath bushy eye- 


32 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


brows, were strikingly keen, though small, and, at 
that moment, he was gazing steadfastly with 
them at a patch of furze some quarter of a mile or 
more away. 

The fact was that he had detected a figure stoop- 
ing beside a bush, which said figure had suddenly 
disappeared as the shepherd came up on the 
horizon line, but not before the latter had taken 
in, even at that distance, the gray cap of Jim 
Thatcher. 

Now Josiah Lovegrove, shepherd to Farmer 
Gringer, was no gamekeeper, nor did he for an 
instant consider it bis duty to be responsible for 
the movements of Jim Thatcher, although he had 
a very shrewd suspicion that there were snares 
toward. The thing merely came as a break in the 
monotony of his lonely day. He would be able 
to discuss it with his wife, Sally, over his tea later 
on. Further than that he would say nothing. 
That patch of furze was on Farmer Ilbury’s land, 
not his master’s, so it had naught to do with him. 
Jim Thatcher could snare every hare and rabbit 
down there if he’d a mind to’t. But his inbred, 
native curiosity was another matter. So he would 
wait and see. 

In a minute or two, however, his attention was 
diverted to another point. Up the Downs came 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


33 


a man who was certainly not Jim Thatcher, a 
stalwart individual, full six feet in height and big 
in proportion, bolt upright in spite of the ascent, 
dressed in a Norfolk suit of Harris tweed, with a 
bright pattern round his stockings below the knee, 
muddied boots that told the shepherd they had 
ploughed up that bit of path a-nigh Wellborough, 
a rather sporting looking cap on his head, and his 
collar the only thing that announced he was a 
parson. In fact, at first it never dawned upon 
the shepherd’s mind that he was a parson at all. 
The Vicar always appeared in his long, black cleri- 
cal coat; the few clergy who visited Adlington from 
time to time were, at all events, correct as to 
colour; the Rural Dean, it is true, wore a bowler 
hat, but then he always came on horseback, and 
his old-fashioned white tie was even more parsonic 
to Josiah Lovegrove’s eye than the modern stiff 
“ jampot” collar, or “Cuddesdon compromise” in 
more cleanly looking imitation of a Roman 
“ stock.” 

Besides, he did not look on the collar but on 
the face of the newcomer as the latter drew near. 
A massive, clean-shaven face, large nose, square 
chin, high forehead, clear gray eyes with just the 
dash of a twinkle in them. He looked much more 
like a naval officer than a parson. Not a young 


34 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


man that is to say, that, as he took his cap off 
for a moment to catch the breeze, he showed that 
he was getting a bit bald, and that the hair that 
was left to him was turning gray. He might have 
been anything from forty to fifty-two by the top 
of his head; he walked like a man of five and 
twenty, swinging a heavy walking-stick as if it 
had been a headmaster’s cane. 

The dog rose and gave a low growl. 

“Down!” exclaimed the shepherd, very quietly, 
and the animal slowly sank to earth once more. 
His master had given him the word that there was 
no danger to the flock, and that was enough. 

“Good-day, t’ye,” said the parson with cheery 
voice as he stopped and wiped his forehead with 
his handkerchief. 

The shepherd slowly lifted his finger to his hat. 

“Good-marnin’, sir,” he answered. 

“Quite a climb up here. I suppose I’m on the 
right track for Adlington.” 

Old Josiah was more accustomed than most of 
them to hearing the name mispronounced, seeing 
that in his capacity of tender of the Down flocks 
he was a sort of outpost in touch with the larger 
world. But he corrected the error. 

“Yas, sir — you be right for ArdXm\on. Mat- 
ter o’ two mile an’ a half it be.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


35 


He spoke in a small, jerky voice, clipping his 
words. 

The parson gazed beyond him at the straggling 
flock of sheep. 

“Good condition — those sheep of yours,” he 
said. 

“They b’longs t’ Muster Gringer,” answered 
the shepherd, again with a view to putting the 
stranger right. “Dunno’s I ever had a better lot 
— nor more on ’em. Tidy few, they be.” 

“Wouldn’t be considered a large flock in Aus- 
tralia — about two hundred, eh?” 

The old man looked at him with interest. He 
had sized them up wonderfully well. 

“A hundred an’ ninety-fower,” he replied. 
“Have ’ee bin in Australee, sir?” 

“I have.” 

“Ah! That’s where Muster Ilbury’s younger 
brother, Caleb, be. Did ’ee ever meet ’un there, 
sir?” 

“No.” 

“Ah,” remarked the shepherd thoughtfully; 
“likely ’a weren’t livin’ in t’ saame part o’ 
Australee.” 

“Very probably,” said the other with a smile, 
“it’s a fairly large place.” 

“So I’ve heered tell,” replied the old man, cast- 


36 LEFT IN CHARGE 

ing his eyes over the wide horizon. “I dessay 
’tis, too.” 

This with a touch of scorn. An admission that 
hearsay evidence might have a dash of truth in it, 
but a refusal to entertain any idea of comparison 
between the size of remote Australia and his own 
rolling Downland. 

The stranger was lingering beside him looking 
down at the patch of furze bushes. 

“ Plenty of hares down there, eh?” he asked 
suddenly. The other turned his head slowly, and 
with suspicion. 

“I sees one now an’ agen,” he admitted. 

“Thought so. What’s that chap doing in those 
bushes — a bit of poaching?” 

The shepherd again stared down the hillside. 

“I doan’t see n’ara chaap,” he said. Which 
was the truth. Nor did he intend to commit 
himself. 

“No. He hid behind a bush just as I came up 
the hillside. I fancy he must have seen you — 
looking at him, eh ? Well, I must get on. Do you 
live in Adlington?” 

Much too direct a question, thought the old 
man. Strangers were apt to be too inquisitive. 
Still, there seemed no harm in answering. 

“I ’ent never lived nowhere else. I was born 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


37 


and bred at Ard\m 9 ton. And I ’ent got no cause 
to complain o 9 that, neither.” 

“ That’s right. Well, I hope you and I may 
become better acquainted. Good-morning!” 

“ Good-marnin’, sir.” 

Josiah Lovegrove turned him round very slowly 
and gazed after the stranger as the latter went on 
his way, skirting the flock. The shepherd, from 
his lonely calling, had developed a habit of some- 
times thinking out loud. And he said thus: 

“’A saw Jim Thatcher a-hidin’ behind th’ fuzz. 
’A saw I were a-lookin’ at ’un, and ’a saw as Jim 
Thatcher saw I. And ’a saw there was ’bout a 
couple o’ hundred ship. Why, th’ man’s got eyes 
for everythin’ ! ’A might a’most be a ArdYm 9 X.on 
man, ’a be so tur’ble shaarpe! And yet ’a simmed 
loike a paarson by that ar’ collar o’ his’n. I never 
know’d a paarson loike that — no more did no one 
else, not as I knows on. Wonder who ’a be? 
Tur’ble smaart gaamekeeper ’a’d maake, to be 
sure! Might even ha’ bin’ a shepherd with a bit o’ 
trainin’. Coom up, Bobbie! Round ’em up, my 
man!” 

The dog scampered away with a bark, rounding 
up the sheep, and the shepherd slowly followed 
them over the Downs, still ruminating, and re- 
peating once or twice : 


38 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“’A might a’most be a ArdWriton man — ’a be 
so tur’ble shaarpe!” 

The parson walked along with swinging step, 
his pipe in full blast. As he had asked for no di- 
rections the shepherd, ever reticent, had said no 
word about looking out for “ Muster G ringer’s 
barn.” This barn stood well out of the village, 
which latter was in a slight dip and never showed 
roof nor chimney to the wanderer over the Downs. 

He looked about him presently. From one of 
the isolated cottages on the Downs he noticed a 
female figure walking in a direction which he saw 
would soon converge with his. He reached the 
converging point first, sat down on a convenient 
mole heap, re-lit his pipe, and waited. When 
she came up to him he rose to his feet, took his 
pipe out of his mouth, raised his cap, and inquired 
the way to Adlington. 

Gertrude Wrenfield had just been to see the 
mother of a truant Sunday-school scholar in that 
lonely cottage, and the explanation had not been 
quite satisfactory. She was just a little bit ruf- 
fled. She looked the stranger up and down 
quickly, noting everything in her glance. Some 
rather unorthodox clergyman on his holiday, no 
doubt. 

“Your quickest way is to make for that black 


LEFT IN CHARGE 39 

barn — then you will get into the road leading to 
the village.” 

“Thanks very much — and the Vicarage? I 
suppose I shall find it quite easily when once I am 
in the village.” 

“The Vicarage? Oh, yes. Are you going to 
see my father?” 

“Indeed? Then I am speaking to Miss Wren- 
field, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” she replied, a little curtly, wondering 
what business this knickerbockered parson could 
have with her father. 

“Then I must introduce myself. My name is 
Ross. You’ve heard about me from the Bishop 
of Norchester, no doubt?” 

“Oh! — I see!” she exclaimed slowly, as the 
truth flashed across her. And with the truth 
there came an instinctive feeling of resentment 
and dislike. This man — this individual in 
Harris tweed knickerbockers and gaudy-topped 
stockings — this man in a sporting cap who had 
been blowing clouds of smoke from a big pipe 
when she came up to him — this giant with the 
square chin and steady, bold-looking eyes — this 
was the man whom the Bishop himself had so 
highly recommended as the curate who was to 
do her father’s work while she was left in charge 


40 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


of the parish — that is to say, at least, he was to 
be in charge of the parish. 

What had the Bishop said? Only the previous 
evening she had read once more the letter which 
he had written to her father. She tried to recall 
the salient points of it. Reliable men for the post 
of locum tenens were very difficult to obtain — he 
was anxious that the Vicar should have his much 
needed rest, and he had done what he could — 
and he was pleased to have found a man whom he 
thought would suit admirably. The Reverend 
Howard Ross — a man of whom he knew some- 
thing — a gentleman — had led somewhat of a 
roving and adventurous life — desired to enter 
Holy Orders late in his career — had been or- 
dained some six years ago, and had done good 
work in the Colonies — just returned to England 
— had asked him, the Bishop, what he could do for 
him — he hoped to be able to give him a per- 
manent appointment next year — meanwhile he 
should be glad to sanction his taking charge of 
Adlington for the winter — would be pleased to 
license him and give him his own episcopal guar- 
antee — Ross was a good, earnest fellow — a 
trifle Colonial perhaps, but, as he said — a gentle- 
man. 

All these points flashed across her mind as she 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


41 


looked at him again. A gentleman — yes, she 
would admit that, at least. But ! 

“My father will be glad to see you,” she went 
on, “though we were not expecting you to-day.” 

By mutual consent they had started to walk to- 
gether toward the village. 

“I couldn’t let him know;” he replied; “I only 
went to the Bishop yesterday — stayed the night 
at Norchester, and suddenly made up my mind 
this morning to run over and have a look at the 
place.” 

“If we had known you were coming we could 
have sent the pony cart to meet you at Well- 
borough.” 

He laughed. 

“Thanks — but I wouldn’t have missed the 
walk for anything. It’s a fine bit of country, this ! ” 

“I’m afraid you’ll find Adlington rather lonely 
— it’s very remote, and we have no society in the 
village at all.” 

For the moment she had forgotten her father’s 
illness and the Bishop’s remarks about the scarcity 
of suitable men. 

“My word!” he exclaimed, breaking into a 
hearty laugh, “you don’t call this lonely, do you? 
You mustn’t talk to me about loneliness! Before 
I was ordained I was two years in the bush quite 


42 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


by myself — fifty miles or more from the nearest 
station, and only an occasional sundowner to 
speak to, month in and month out. Makes a fel- 
low look upon this as packed with human nature, 
like a sardine tin, you know!” 

“You’ve lived a good deal in the Colonies, have 
you not?” 

He took a side glance at her and smiled to him- 
self a little. 

Stiff! Oh, jolly stiff female, he thought, she 
don’t cotton to me! 

“Twenty years or so, off and on.” 

“What were you doing in Australia?” 

“Sheep,” he answered laconically; “at least,” 
he added, “before I had a turn at the diggings.” 

“And now you are thinking of settling down in 
England?” 

“Ah, well,” he replied, “perhaps so. I don’t 
hardly know myself. I may, for a time, you 
know, Miss Wrenfield — till the roving fit over- 
takes me again and I offer myself as a missionary 
— or something of that sort.” 

They drew near the village. Miss Wrenfield 
hardly relaxed her stiffness; the Reverend Howard 
Ross was quite natural and easy. A girl they met 
in the road dropped a curtesy to the Vicar’s 
daughter, a labourer touched his hat. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


43 


“Civil folks,” said Ross. 

“Of course /” replied Miss Wrenfield; “I trust 
they know their manners.” 

The returned Colonial grinned, contrasting 
them with certain folk he had met in his clerical 
labours abroad. 

The Vicar met them in the hall; it was .a mo- 
ment or two before the personality of his visitor 
dawned upon him. Then he looked him up and 
down sharply. 

“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Ross. We will have 
a talk by and by. Of course you’ll stay to lunch- 
eon? It will be ready directly.” 

“Thanks very much, sir,” answered the other; 
“I’m a bit peckish after my walk, and I can do 
with some tucker.” 

“I beg your pardon — tucker?” asked the 
mystified Vicar. 

“Grub, sir, grub!” explained the curate-in- 
charge that was to be. 

“ Well, dear — what do you think of him ? ” asked 
Mrs. Wrenfield of her daughter before they joined 
the two men at lunch; “will he do, Gertrude?” 

“H’m,” said Miss Wrenfield, with a little frown, 
“it does not always do to judge by first appear- 
ances. The Bishop speaks highly of him — and 
we must hope that it will be all right.” 


44 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“I do hope dear father will like him,” went on 
the Vicar’s wife a little anxiously. 

“I hope we shall all like him,” retorted her 
daughter, grimly. 

But she had her doubts. 


CHAPTER IV 


It was duly settled that the Reverend Howard 
Ross should take the post of curate-in-charge of 
Adlington while the Vicar was away on his much 
needed rest. There had been difficulties, cer- 
tainly. None felt this fact more than Miss Wren- 
field, who had even gone so far as to write another 
and strictly private letter to the Bishop on the 
matter. The prelate, shrewd man, had smiled 
when he read it. He had been a curate himself, 
years before, and Miss Wrenfield always reminded 
him of his Vicar’s sister, at whose hands he had 
suffered much in those days of raw pastoral ex- 
perience. 

In the Bishop’s study was a case of pigeonholes 
kept carefully locked, and containing more or less 
bulky envelopes under the respective letters of the 
alphabet. Many clerical histories reposed in 
those pigeonholes, for the Bishop was a method- 
ical man; besides, he knew a great deal more 
than he ever said. 

He unlocked this case, selected an envelope 
from the cavity marked “R,” and looked through 

45 


46 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


some papers which he took from it. His smile had 
given place to a grave expression. 

“He would have been wiser, perhaps, to have 
remained in Australia,” he murmured thought- 
fully, “ but that is his own affair — and I have 
promised to do what I can for him. Besides, 
after all, he has shown that he deserves his chance, 
and he shall have it if he fulfills this charge at 
Adlington. It won’t do the parish any harm, 
even if he stirs them up a little — dear old Wren- 
field will soon put that to rights on his return. 
And it certainly won’t do Miss Wrenfield any 
harm — even if she does think herself capable of 
managing her father’s curate as well as her father’s 
parish.” 

He smiled again as he wrote the following letter: 

“Dear Miss Wrenfield: It is most essen- 
tial that your good father should have this rest, 
and I have done what I could to arrange for it. It 
was not easy to find a man at liberty whom I could 
trust to take charge of his parish, and I am con- 
fident that he can leave things in the hands of Mr. 
Ross with equanimity. I hope he will return in 
the spring greatly benefited, and that, in the 
meantime, you will have formed a favourable 
opinion of my nominee. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“T. Norchester.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


47 


The Bishop gave the vestige of a sigh as he re- 
placed the papers in their pigeonholes. One of 
the great burdens of those in office is to know the 
histories of men and to be responsible for using 
this knowledge aright. 

In face of his letter Miss Wrenfield gave up all 
hope of a substitute and made up her mind, for her 
father’s sake, to accept the inevitable. Very often 
when we do this we make up a stronger little bit 
of our minds, which action takes the form of 
determining to oppose the inevitable in every con- 
ceivable way. 

After some persuasion on the part of the old 
Vicar, Sally Lovegrove consented to let the Rev- 
erend Howard Ross her best parlour and spare 
bedroom. Not without due consultation with 
her husband, the little old shepherd. 

At first the latter wouldn’t “hear tell o’ no sich 
a thing, ’twarn’t likely.” Not that he had any 
grudge against the new “paarson,” whom he con- 
sidered “a decent-spoken gentleman, look ’ee, and 
tur’ble smaart — that ’a were.” But he liked 
having his home to himself. 

“Sally and he was boath a-gettin’ on in years, 
and how could she see to ’un as she should?” 

Sally, who was a portentous old woman, in- 
variably wearing an old black shawl indoors and 


48 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


out, in all weathers, and with a habit of snuffing 
violently as though in the early stages of a cold in 
the head, pointed out that “ fifteen shillings were 
fifteen shillings. ” 

Josiah scratched the top of his head, took a pull 
at his supper beer, and thought out this remark- 
able saying with deep earnestness, arriving, after the 
lapse of three silent minutes, at a sapient conclusion : 

“I doan’t saay as ’t’aint.” 

Sally snuffed agreement. 

“But we’ve got on without it a smaartish bit, 
ain’t us?” 

“Paid regular every week,” went on Sally, 
“’twould come in useful, I dessay.” 

“Ah! I dessay ’twould!” 

“And the Vicar were good to we a toime back 
when we lost our Tom.” 

The sniff was a genuine one this time. That 
was fifteen years ago. But they had not for- 
gotten — and the old man’s thoughts strayed to a 
turfy mound in the churchyard. 

“’Tis he as wants us to have ’un,” went on his 
wife, lifting up the corner of her apron and brush- 
ing it across her eyes. 

Josiah pushed his chair back from the table, 
filled his short clay pipe, lit it, smoked for a few 
moments, and then said, very quietly: 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


49 


“We’ll have ’un, then, Sally.” 

Sally nodded her head, but said nothing. 

“Fifteen shillings is fifteen shillin’s,” went on the 
old shepherd suddenly. The topic had to be 
changed somehow. “You’re right, Sally. I des- 
say we can do with it.” 

The rooms were small enough, but Ross was 
quite content. 

“ If I ever want to swing a cat I’ll go out in the 
garden, Mrs. Lovegrove,” he remarked, quite 
solemnly. 

The meaning was quite lost on Sally. She gave 
a sniff and replied: 

“Lor’, sir, I shouldn’t loike to see you doin’ 
that. Not that I’m fond o’ cats, through Josiah 
alius havin’ a dog, but I can’t abide cruelty to 
animals, sir — and, beggin’ your pardon, I doan’t 
loike to see it in a minister o’ the church.” 

“Quite right,” said Ross, still with extreme 
gravity; “I should never think of swinging a cat 
unless it was a dead one.” 

“Ah! That be a diff’rent thing,” replied Sally, 
relieved, but still mystified. 

He took up his quarters in the -little cottage 
about a week before the Vicar started. This was 
essential in the latter’s mind, for the machinery of 
the parish had to be explained — and that fully. 


50 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


The old man knew the personal history of every 
one of his flock — or thought he did — and con- 
fided much private information anent these sheep 
— black and white as the case might be — to his 
substitute, who took careful notes in the Vicar’s 
study while he listened. Not that he showed up his 
book for correction afterward. For the notes of 
the Reverend Howard Ross were slangy and pe- 
culiar, as witness sundry specimens: 

“Jim Thatcher. Poacher. Sometimes beery. 
Accustomed to stone jug at intervals. Attends 
Doctor Greenfield’s open-air church on Sundays 
and prefers snares to hymn-books — as being more 
practical.” 

“Elisha Norris. Keeps pub. Never been to 
church since his wedding thirty years ago. Con- 
sistent chap, this.” 

“Widow Martin. Bad legs. Likes being read 
to. Wherefore? Answer: Receives regular doles 
from sick and needy fund.” 

“Martha Peskett. Spinster, communicant, and 
washerwoman. Exceeding pious. Shan’t like her.” 

“Amos Weedon. Widower. Lives alone, very 
dirty — better marry Martha Peskett; might get 
washed then.” 

The Vicar invariably wound up his descriptions 
of humanity by saying: 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


51 


“My daughter can give you any further infor- 
mation about them, you know, Mr. Ross.” 

To which the latter replied: 

“Fm perfectly sure she can, sir.” 

The Sunday before he went, the Vicar insisted 
upon taking the whole of the services — with the 
exception of the lessons, which Ross was allowed 
to read. He wanted Ross to see exactly how 
things were done. He had never made the slight- 
est alteration in the services for thirty-four years, 
and seemed to think that something terrible might 
happen if things did not go on precisely the same 
in his absence. Any deviation from the manner 
of giving out hymns or pronouncing the blessing 
might, in some mysterious way, lead to dire 
results — moral or theological. In the pul- 
pit, that evening, he waxed very pathetic. He 
felt leaving his parish intensely, and preached 
a sermon anent which Martha Peskett remarked 
afterward : 

“’Twas beautiful, that ’twas. Simmed as 
though ’a was never cornin’ back to Ard\m\on 
no moare — likely ’a wunt, neither, for I dessay 
as how goin’ awaay ’ull kill ’un. I kep a-wipin’ my 
eyes all the toime; ’twas almost loike a funeral — 
ah, beautiful, ’twas! I’ve never heered a sar- 
mon as maade I feel so mis’rable — simmed as if 


52 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


we was moare in Heaven than in church, that ’t 
did!” 

In the course of the said sermon the Vicar 
remarked: 

“ I shall never forget you, dear people. I shall 
think of you very often, and, if my health is re- 
stored, I shall come back to you with joy. Mean- 
while I leave in my place one whom I hope will 
work well and faithfully among you, one in whom 
I have every confidence, who will, I trust, be capa- 
ble in every way of carrying out the charge which 
I am so reluctantly compelled to relinquish for a 
season.” 

The eyes of the congregation wandered between 
two persons, the Reverend Howard Ross seated 
in the choir and Miss Wrenfield bolt upright on 
the organ-stool. The faces of both were immov- 
ably set. The congregation pondered thought- 
fully, the majority arriving at the conclusion that 
the Vicar was referring to his daughter. Indeed, 
the choir-boys had not the slightest doubt about 
the matter. They , at all events, never dreamed 
that Miss Wrenfield could possibly be a lesser 
authority in the parish. 

After service the Vicar said farewell to the 
two churchwardens, who came into the vestry 
for the purpose: Mark Ilbury, dark and pale in 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


53 


contrast to his coadjutor, William Gringer, the 
latter being a red-faced, clean-shaven old fellow 
with a loud, hearty voice. They wished the Vicar 
a healthful return. He lingered for a moment. 

“I hope Mr. Ross will look after things — and 
that you will like him,” he said. 

“That’ll be all right, Vicar,” replied Farmer 
Gringer; “we’ll look after him, you know. I like 
what I’ve seen of him.” 

“ I hope he’s not high church,” put in Mark II- 
bury suspiciously, “because that won’t do in 
Adlington.” 

“What makes you think of such a thing, Il- 
bury?” asked the Vicar. 

The farmer shook his head. 

“He wears such a short surplice,” he said. 

The Vicar smiled. He knew Mark Ilbury’s 
proclivities and he knew, also, that the farmer had 
very hazy notions as to what really was “high” or 
“low.” 

“ I think you will find that everything will go on 
just the same in the services, Ilbury. The length 
of a surplice is nothing to judge by.” 

“Ah, I like ’em long. You know where you are 
then,” replied Mark Ilbury. 

“If he gives us a good sermon he can wear what 
he likes, that’s my opinion,” said old Gringer 


54 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


heartily; “so long as he don’t tell me what sort of 
a coat I’ve got to put on. Ha, ha, ha ! Well, good- 
bye, Vicar, we shall be glad to see ye back again.” 

“Ah — we shall!” echoed the other warden as 
he shook hands with the old man. 

The next day the Vicar departed. Their lug- 
gage went on to the station in Gringer’s cart, and 
Miss Wrenfield drove them into Wellborough in 
the Vicarage pony trap. Hats were touched and 
curtseys dropped by stragglers in the village, and 
tears were in the old man’s eyes as he waved his 
hand in return. The man who had the last sight 
of them was Josiah Lovegrove, standing like an 
outpost on the lonely Downs. He picked out the 
tiny pony trap away down in the distance along 
the open road, and raised his hat slowly. 

“God bless ’un and bring ’un back safe whoam 
agen!” he murmured. 

They used to say that when a shepherd died in 
the Down country they put a scrap of sheep’s 
wool in his coffin. A friendly angel discovering 
this at the general resurrection on the Last Day 
would accept it as a witness of the fact that the 
man, by reason of his employment, was unable 
to attend church with any amount of regularity. 
Possibly the record already set down against the 
name of old Josiah Lovegrove would have been 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


55 


sufficient to guarantee a pass through St. Peter’s 
portal without that fleece of justification. 

Miss Wrenfield went up to London to see her 
parents off by the boat train and stayed the night 
in town, improving the occasion by doing a little 
shopping, which mainly took the form of purchases 
of sundry books and certificates for Sunday-school 
prizes and presents for the forthcoming Christmas 
treats. 

The next morning she returned to Wellborough, 
where she had put up the Vicarage pony and trap 
at an inn, and drove out to Adlington. As she 
reached the village — just before she turned into 
the Vicarage drive — she saw two men walking a 
little way in front. One was the Reverend How- 
ard Ross, clad in his knickerbocker suit and cap, 
a cloud of smoke drifting from his pipe, and the 
other, to whom he was offering a huge tobacco 
pouch in a most friendly manner, was that ne’er- 
do-well and poacher — Jim Thatcher. 

The Vicar’s daughter ate her solitary lunch in 
the large dining room, thinking hard. 

“Well, I’m very glad I stayed,” she said to her- 
self; “I may be prejudiced — but, for the sake of 
the parish, I’m very glad I stayed!” 

Afterward she went out with alms money in her 
purse and a Bible in her pocket to read to that 


56 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


worthy woman, the widow Martin, who remarked, 
after appreciation and due thanks: 

“I be left so much to myself, miss, just now, 
specially o’ nights. John, ’a be that woritted 
over things — a-missin’ hares and what not. Yes, 
miss, we suspects Jim Thatcher, o’ course, but 
there ain’t no catchin’ o’ ’un, though John’s been 
a-watchin’ they preserves for weeks.” 

John Martin, the widow’s son, be it understood, 
was gamekeeper to Major Bond, who rented Far- 
mer Gringer’s shooting, a man of a very respect- 
able calling, and a chorister and bell-ringer to 
boot. 


CHAPTER V 


The untidy little back garden of Jim Thatcher’s 
cottage bordered a field-path running behind the 
village. A broken gate led from the garden into 
this path, and up to that gate came John Martin, 
and looked over it, and stopped incontinently. 

He was a fresh, ruddy-faced young man, with 
fair moustache, clad in a loose, dark suit, and legs 
bound up in yellow gaiters. Over his shoulder 
he carried the implement of his calling — a gun. 
The reason why he stopped was evident. Outside 
the back door a girl stood, busy at her washtub, 
her sleeves turned up, disclosing plump arms, a 
coarse, sackcloth apron protecting her dress, her 
dark hair caught in the breeze, and the steam of 
the hot water slightly beclouding her, the sunshine 
of a glorious afternoon in early November lighting 
up the picture. Maybe, out of the corner of her 
eye, she saw John Martin stop at that gate, but 
she went on steadily with her washing. 

“You looks busy, Ruth!” 

She turned her head and gave it a little toss. 

“Some one’s got to do a bit o’ work,” she said. 

57 


58 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“I ain’t got time for loungin’ about — like some 
folks.” 

The young man’s face grew ruddier. 

“Is that meant for me or for your father?” he 
asked. 

“Oh, I dunno,” she replied, wringing out one of 
the paternal shirts and shaking it; “sims you ain’t 
got much to do beyond walkin’ about and watchin’ 
them that’s a-workin’.” 

“And they taake a deal o’ watchin’ — toimes!” 
he answered with a smile. 

She faced him, resting for a moment, leaning 
forward with her hands on the washtub. 

“Well, hadn’t you better watch ’em where 
you’re paid for doin’ on it? Up on the Downs, 
instead o’ pryin’ into back gardens? There ’ent 
no rabbit snares in they cabbages!” 

The secret of Jim Thatcher’s calling was more 
or less an open one. Considering he had visited 
Wellborough jail for short periods more than 
once, this was pretty well bound to be so. And 
the fact that it was John Martin’s plain duty to 
catch him red-handed by fair means or foul was 
equally an open secret. Therefore there was no 
false modesty or beating about the bush with Ruth 
when it came to her father’s profession. The 
thing was taken for granted. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


59 


“I ’ent alius a-lookin’ for snares, Ruth — there’s 
something a deal prettier than snares t’other side 
o’ they cabbages.” 

She plunged her arms in the washtub and at- 
tacked another shirt vigorously. John Martin 
unhooked the gate and came a step or two into 
the garden. 

“ I means you, Ruth,” he said bluntly, with a 
dim idea that he might not have explained himself 
sufficiently plainly. 

“Hadn’t you best get about your work and stop 
talking foolish?” she replied. 

“ ’T’ent foolish; ’tis true,” he answered val- 
iantly. “There ’ent a better lookin’ girl in 
Ardlin’ton than what you be.” 

Ruth Thatcher relinquished the shirt, wiped 
her hand in her old apron, and pushed back a 
wandering tress of hair from her forehead. 

“You chaaps is all alike,” she remarked; “al- 
ius saying things as you doan’t mean. Fred 
Rumsey said just what you’ve been a-sayin’ a 
month since when ’a asked I to walk out wi’ he 
Sundays. And now ’a’s taaken on wi’ Jessie 
Blake ’a tells she the saame, I dessay.” 

“Fred Rumsey had better moind what ’a’s 
sayin’ to ’ee,” replied John Martin. “But I’m 
glad you didn’t walk out wi’ he! ” 


60 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“ Might ha’ done if I’d had a moind to’t,” 
replied the girl casually. “There be some chaaps 
as never asks a girl to walk out o’ Sunday arter- 
noons.” 

John Martin tilted his cap and scratched his 
head. Ruth had struck a very sore spot. In this 
way: Jim Thatcher was an instance of the Apos- 
tle’s second type — “One man esteemeth one day 
above another; another esteemeth every day 
alike.” That is to say that the Lord’s Day was no 
more to him than an ordinary time of oppor- 
tunities, which opportunities were of the carnal 
and not of the spiritual variety. When he could 
do so with safety, John Martin rang in the bells o’ 
Sundays and sang in the choir. Not without oc- 
casional trepidation as when on the previous 
Sunday evening, the stern reminder had come 
from the one hundred and forty-second Psalm: 
“In the way wherein I walked have they privily 
laid a snare,” and his thoughts had wandered to a 
certain furze clump, and the possibility that the 
Psalmist’s enemy might be that moment at work 
in his old way. Wherefore his attendances at 
church were erratic, so that no man knew exactly 
when he would be worshipping. 

But if he had walked out with Ruth Thatcher 
on Sunday afternoons or evenings the situation 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


61 


would have become alarming. As it was, he 
could slip out of the tower after he had rung his 
bell and be off over the Downs, but there was no 
slipping away surreptitiously from a girl. To 
“walk out” with the daughter of Jim Thatcher 
would be to give that latter astute individual the 
absolute certainty that, for two or three hours at 
least, the coast would be quite clear — and a 
great deal could be done in two hours. Hence 
the problem of John Martin’s love-making and 
the present head-scratching. 

Out of the back door of the cottage came Jim 
Thatcher himself, in shirtsleeves and with hands 
deep in the pockets of his old fustian trousers. 
His hat wag stuck on the back of his head, its rim 
making a sort of halo, showing up his face. Dark 
hair, thin side-whiskers, a three-days’ growth on 
upper lip and chin, dark, twinkling eyes and hu- 
morous curves at the corners of his mouth, one 
curve being emphasized in that in its particular 
corner was gripped a short, black pipe. 

Jim Thatcher spoke with a slow drawl. 

“Hullo, John,” he said; “how be?” 

John Martin nodded back. 

“Middlin’, thankee,” he replied. 

“ I be goin’ to put up a notice-boaard in my gar- 
den, John,” went on the other, standing very still, 


62 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


and looking at the young gamekeeper atten- 
tively. 

“What be that, then?” 

“Saame as Major Bond’s stuck up in Bush 
Copse, ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted.’ You’d look 
small, I reckon, if I had ’ee into Wellborough for 
a-comin’ into my garden ’ithout bein’ asked to’t!” 

To “have a man into Wellborough” was the 
local phrase for summoning him to appear before 
the magistrates. Jim Thatcher grinned at his lit- 
tle joke and Ruth chortled audibly. 

“Ah,” replied John Martin dryly, “mebbe I 
should. Is that what you feels like when you 
goes in?” 

Jim Thatcher withdrew his pipe from his mouth 
and laughed softly. The retort pleased him. 
The game between the two men was a perfectly 
fair one, and neither of them bore malice. That 
was always understood. 

“ You ’ent got me there yet, have ’ee?” 

Which was true. John Martin had only come 
on as gamekeeper that year and had, so far, never 
been able to catch Jim Thatcher in the act. 

“Best not boast about it.” 

“Me?” exclaimed Jim Thatcher with an air of 
injured innocence, “I be a respectable, hard- 
wor,kin’ labourin’ man, I be. I dunno what you 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


63 


be a-gettin’ at, John Martin. You leave I aloane, 
and I’ll leave you aloane. Got many hares about, 
now, John?” 

“ There might be a few moare if they wasn’t 
snared so much.” 

“ Ah — I’m sorry to hear it,” replied the 
poacher with great solemnity. “You must keep a 
sharper lookout upon they Downs — that’s right 
ain’t it, Ruth?” 

“Oh, I dunno, I’m sure,” said the girl as she 
picked up the basket of wrung clothes and pre- 
pared to hang them on the line that ran from prop 
to apple tree across the little garden. John Mar- 
tin hesitated as to whether he should go or not; 
the older man sat down on an upturned box, 
knocked out his pipe, slowly filled it, and offered 
his pouch to his enemy. 

The latter leaned his gun against the apple tree 
and accepted the gift. 

“You smokes good ’baccy,” he remarked, as he 
helped himself. 

“Ah! ’Tis some as the new paarson gi’ I.” 

John Martin looked at him curiously as he 
struck a match and shielded it with his hands. 

“You ’ent had much to do with paarsons have 
’ee?” 

Jim Thatcher smoked reflectively. 


64 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“This ’un ’ent loike a paarson,” he said pres- 
ently; “’a be moare loike an or’nary man.” 

This was his apology for clerical intercourse. 

“Ah!” assented John Martin, “and ’a can 
preach, too. Not loike the old Vicar — ’a reads 
his. Muster Ross ’a just leans over the pulpit 
and talks to ’em — ah, straight , ’a do.” 

Jim Thatcher nodded approvingly. 

“I hopes ’a’ll do you good,” he retorted with a 
broad grin. “Look ’ee,” he added suddenly; “you 
be arter my gal, ’ent ’ee, John?” 

Ruth was at the other end of the line, pegging 
shirts; her father jerked his thumb in her direc- 
tion. John flushed violently. 

“I doan’t mean her no harm,” he said in a low 
voice. 

Jim Thatcher understood perfectly. State- 
ments in Adlington were of the cautious variety. 
If you said of a certain thing, “I doan’t mind 
’un,” it signified that you liked it intensely. If 
you remarked that a neighbour was “middlin’ 
bad,” you were understood to infer that there were 
small hopes of recovery. So, when John Martin 
announced that he meant no harm to Ruth, the 
statement implied that he was seriously in love 
with her. 

Jim Thatcher took a knife from his pocket, 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


65 


opened it, and thoughtfully commenced to whittle 
a bit of stick he picked up from the ground for the 
purpose. 

“Look ’ee, John,” he said, “Ruth be old enough 
to know her own moind, and I ’ent a-goin’ to saay 
nought. She might do wuss. If you wants to 
court her / wunt stand in your light. Only,” and 
the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile, 
“she be tur’ble fond o’ I — she be!” 

“That’s nat’ral,” replied John, a little mystified. 

“That ’t be. What I means is — well, I’ll tell 
’ee now. You minds young Warner?” 

“What — the p’liceman?” 

“Ah. That’s him! Well, a toime back ’a was 
sweet on Ruth; and the gal, she rather fancied he. 
But ’a happened to meet I one daay and maade I 
turn out ma pockets. Some ’un had bin and gone 
and put a couple o’ birds in ’em — must ha’ got 
hold o’ ma coat when I were asleep, I reckon,” and 
he grinned vehemently. “The end on’t was I had 
two weeks down at Wellborough — dessay you 
heered on’t?” 

“Ah, I heered on’t!” 

And, indeed, who hadn’t in Adlington? 

“Well, Ruth, she were so sorry for her poor 
feyther she ’ent never spoake to Warner agen. 
That’s the sort o’ gal she be!” 


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Having triumphantly stated the position, he 
shut up his knife, replaced it in his pocket, took his 
pipe out of his mouth, expectorated, and chuckled 
with intense glee. For the second time that after- 
noon John Martin scratched his head. Then he 
gave a little sigh, took his gun from the tree trunk 
and said abruptly: 

“Why doan’t ’ee give it up? ’Tis a casalty 
gaame at best.” 

“Gi’ up what?" asked Jim Thatcher in profound 
astonishment, admirably assumed. 

“Poachin’.” 

“ Poachin'!" exclaimed the other. “I warn’t 
a-talkin’ about poachin’. I were a-sayin’ what a 
lovin’ darter I got! Po achin’! You be a gaame- 
keeper, b’aint ’ee? Got poachin’ on the brain, 
I reckon. Why, you never ketched I a-poachin’, 
have ’ee, John? Not as I knows on!” 

John Martin shouldered his gun, muttered some- 
thing quite incoherent, and, turning his back on 
Jim Thatcher, walked away. 

“Poachin'! Ho, ho, ho!” came the ironical 
laugh behind him. “Ruth!” 

“What be it, father!” 

“Saay good arternoon to John Martin, wull ’ee? 
Tell ’un to keep his eye on they hares up at Fuzzy 
Bank!” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


67 


Ruth was very near the back gate. John paused 
a moment in passing her. 

“ Good-bye, Ruth,” he said. 

She took the clothes peg from between her teeth, 
fixed the corner of a sheet with it, looking at him 
smilingly round the edge of it. 

“Must ’ee go so soon, John?” she said. “Father 
simmed to be enjoyin’ your company by the waay 
Vs a-laughin’.” 

“I wish you enjoyed my company, Ruth,” he 
floundered desperately. 

“So I do,” she replied sweetly, “when I doan’t 
get too much on’t,” she added. 

“I couldn’t have too much o’ yours,” he said. 

She sidled behind the flapping sheet. 

“You ain’t had the chance o’ bein’ sure about 
that. Good arternoon!” 

And, picking up her empty basket, she went 
back to her washtub, never glancing over her 
shoulder once. John Martin waited to see if she 
would. Not she! 

Jim Thatcher sat on, smoking reflectively, with 
an occasional remark to his daughter. Presently 
he rose, stretched himself, and exclaimed: 

“I be a-goin’ up street, Ruth.” 

She nodded. 

“Will ’ee be back to tea?” 


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“Dunno” 

He went into the cottage, put on a loose, volu- 
minous old coat, which on closer inspection 
would have been seen to boast of sundry capacious 
inner pockets, opened the front door, and saun- 
tered lazily “up street.” There was nothing 
doing, and he had to kill slow time somehow. 
Sauntering “up street” was the best way of doing 
it, especially as that way lay the “Wheatsheaf.” 
He met Miss Wrenfield, bent on parochial visi- 
tations, took a hand from his pocket and touched 
his forehead, receiving a cold and distant ac- 
knowledgment, for Jim Thatcher was a sheep 
marked black in the Vicarage books. Quite un- 
disturbed at the rebuff he went slowly on, reached 
the “Wheatsheaf,” stopped, opened the door, and 
peered into the tap-room on the left. It was 
empty — but inviting. 

“Tisha!” 

Somewhere from the back premises came Elisha 
Norris, with wooden features imperturbable as 
usual, stared hard at the newcomer, never said a 
word, took down a pint mug from the shelf, dis- 
appeared again into the back premises, returned 
with the mug full of beer, set it down on the table 
and picked up the twopence which lay there ready, 
stood quite still in the tap-room, and gazed 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


69 


through the window at nothing at all. All this 
without a word from either. 

The landlord was the first to speak. Without 
moving his position a muscle he suddenly said : 

“There ’a goes!” 

“Who?” demanded Jim Thatcher, who, having 
his back to the window, elbows on the table, and 
chin on hands, was far too lazily comfortable to 
look for himself. 

“Him up at Hill Croft.” 

“Oh, Philips, b’ ain’t ’a?” 

“Ah!” _ 

In familiar company prefixes were commonly 
dropped. Even the Doctor became plain Ham- 
mond. 

After a long pause Jim asked: 

“Artist, b’aint ’a?” 

“What?” 

“Paints picters. Sin ’un a-doin’ on’t ’long by 
Gringer’s barn t’other daay.” 

“Oh, paints picters, do ’a?” said the other re- 
flectively. 

“Rum way some chaaps has o’ maakin’ a 
livin’,” went on Jim Thatcher. 

Elisha Norris looked at him seriously 

“Ah!” he acquiesced, “picters — and poachin’ 
— and preachin’,” he went on, as his eyes turned 


70 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


back to the window and he saw the Reverend 
Howard Ross coming up to his doorstep. 

He went out of the tap-room to open the door. 
The Vicar’s visits were periodical, Mrs. Norris 
being generally the objective. He greeted Ross 
with a “good-arternoon, sir,” and suggested his 
going into the parlour, on the other side of the pas- 
sage, opposite the tap-room, while he called the 
missus. 

“No,” said Ross; “I’ve called to make your ac- 
quaintance first — see your missus afterward.” 

Elisha Norris hesitated awkwardly, recollecting 
that he never went to church and by no means in- 
tended to go. Before he could stop him, Ross had 
preceded him into the tap-room, having caught a 
glimpse of Jim Thatcher seated there. Elisha 
followed in trepidation. The tap-room was no 
place for parsons; never had been. It was a public 
sanctum, set aside for beer-imbibing and non- 
improving conversation. 

Ross nodded genially to Jim Thatcher, sat down, 
calmly filled his pipe, and began talking to Elisha 
almost like a customer, so much so, in fact, that 
the landlord mechanically stretched out his hand 
toward the shelf where pots stood, recollected 
himself in time and withdrew it, stuck his hands 
in his pockets, took refuge in gazing out of the 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


71 


window — over the parson’s head — and won- 
dered when the latter would ask him whether he 
attended church. 

But the Reverend Howard Ross did no such 
thing. Instead thereof he began to talk about 
sundry Australian experiences of his, drew a com- 
parison between the quiet, cozy village inn and a 
whisky shanty in some gold diggings he had 
visited, yarned about strange fellows he 
had met there, led the conversation on to 
the bush, and actually extracted remarks from 
Elisha, while Jim Thatcher quite forgot to drink 
his beer. 

Miss Wrenfield was fated to receive evil im- 
pressions of the Reverend Howard Ross. In the 
course of her peregrinations of the village that 
afternoon she suddenly recollected that she wished 
to see about Maggie Norris, who, having just left 
school, was wishful to obtain “a place.” Wherefore 
she called at the “Wheatsheaf.” Elisha opened 
the door and showed her into the parlour, calling 
his wife from the back premises. On his re- 
turn to the tap-room he forgot to close the door. 
For which reason, when Miss Wrenfield, the inter- 
view with Mrs. Norris having been satisfactorily 
concluded, came out of the parlour, she caught a 
momentary picture through tobacco smoke in 


72 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


which the Reverend Howard Ross was predom- 
inant — seated at the table with Jim Thatcher’s 
pint of ale — which the latter had pushed across 
from mechanical force of friendly habit — in 
close proximity to him. 


CHAPTER VI 


“Mr. Ross, miss.” 

Gertrude Wrenfield laid down her pen and rose 
to greet her visitor, a little stiff and distantly. 
She was looking upon him as the inevitable. He 
sat down easily enough, made some casual re- 
marks on the weather, and launched forth, abruptly 
into the object of his visit. He had come to con- 
sult Miss Wrenfield on one or two minor paro- 
chial affairs. This was as it should be, and she 
unbent a little. She gave the required informa- 
tion — details of some organization, points about 
sundry parishioners, and so forth. Somehow the 
Sunday school cropped up. 

“I came across a chap called Bob Flitney yes- 
terday — oh, and another bright boy — chuck- 
ing stones at your pony in the orchard; he 
was Sam Gale. They don’t seem to belong to 
any class.” 

Miss Wrenfield frowned and used the expression 
which she was in the habit of applying to the black 
sheep of the flock. 

“Oh, they’re horrors, Mr. Ross. I had both of 
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74 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


them in my class some time back, but I had to 
turn them out. They upset the other lads.” 

“Ah! They looked that sort.” 

“I’m very glad you told me about Gale and 
our pony. I shall go and see his mother to- 
morrow.” 

“Oh, I say, don’t do that. He won’t do it 
again. I cuffed the young beggar’s head till he 
yelled for mercy.” 

Miss Wrenfield bit her lip . The remedy might 
be effectual, but such methods jarred. She could 
not imagine her father boxing Sam’s ears. She 
could not imagine herself doing so. 

“Do you think that was quite wise, Mr. Ross? 
The Vicar would hardly agree with such strange 
measures.” 

“Oh, do him good,” said Ross pleasantly, but 
with the tone of one dismissing the subject. 
“What I was going to say, though, was that I 
shall start a lads’ class on Sunday afternoons — 
after the children’s service.” 

Miss Wrenfield frowned. This was a distinct 
attack on her prerogative. 

“I have a lads’ class,” she said. “I thought I 
had mentioned it?” 

“Oh, yes,” replied Ross; “I don’t mean that I 
had intention of poaching, you know. I only 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


75 


want the castaways and those who go nowhere. 
I shall have ’em in my diggings.” 

“ I hope you will consult Mrs. Lovegrove first,” 
said Miss Wrenfield, a little stiffly; “she might 
object.” 

“Oh, she’s all right. Rather likes the idea. I 
told her she’s got to sit in the parlour — my room, 
you know — while I take ’em in her kitchen place. 
Must respect the old lady’s best carpet, you 
know.” 

Miss Wrenfield choked a remark. She found 
herself getting almost angry. She had shown the 
man as plainly as she could that his idea did not 
meet with her approval, and all the time he had 
gone on announcing what he was going to do, with 
the utmost pleasantness, but also with an air of 
quiet determination which she resented. She 
was not accustomed to it. She knew she could 
not tell him that he was not to have this class, and 
she knew, also, that she had no real argument 
against it. The problem of troublesome boys had 
often bothered her. But she resented any solu- 
tion by this man. 

Tea had been brought in, and she sat fingering 
her cup and looking down at it. She had a duty 
to perform in the absence of her father. She had 
suddenly recollected it. It was only fair to the 


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parish, only fair to her, only fair to Ross himself, 
that she should say what she had to say. 

She looked up at him suddenly. 

“Mr. Ross,” she remarked, in a quiet voice, 
“you must forgive me saying it, but do you think 
that — that — concerting with men drinking in a 
public house is quite the right thing for a clergy- 
man?” 

“Eh, what?” he asked, a little astonished just 
for a moment. “Oh, I see what you’re driving 
at, Miss Wrenfield. You saw me doing a bit of 
parochial visiting — I remember it now.” 

He raised his cup and took a sip of tea, looking 
at her with a quizzical smile over the edge of it. 
She met his gaze steadily. 

“I mean,” she went on, “that I don’t think my 
father would like it, and — and it’s not the sort 
of thing we’ve been accustomed to.” 

His lips quivered with a smile, and he said, very 
quietly: # 

“But weren’t we both engaged in the same oc- 
cupation, after all?” 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“Well, you were in the parlour, talking to the 
missus — her room; and I was in the tap-room 
talking to the boss — his room. You were lend- 
ing an air of respectability to one side of the house: 


LEFT IN CHARGE 77 

won’t you grant that I was doing the same to the 
other side?” 

“It wasn’t that,” she retorted; “it was that — 
well — I was not drinking.” 

It cost her a little effort, but she said it with a 
quiet dignity. And he replied, with equal dig- 
nity, but very dryly: 

“Neither was I.” 

She bit her lip and her face coloured slightly. 

“I’m sorry,” she admitted. “I’ve done you an 
injustice.” 

“Well, yes — you have,” he replied bluntly. 
“Circumstantial evidence is always a bit risky.” 

There was an awkward silence for a moment or 
two. Again Miss Wrenfield felt herself defeated, 
and foolishly this time. But she returned to the 
attack. 

“I think you ought to know that the man 
Thatcher bears a very bad character in the vil- 
lage.” 

“Regular scamp, I should imagine,” assented 
Ross with the utmost cheerfulness. 

“Possibly my father told you that he is ad- 
dicted to poaching?” 

“It’s awfully tempting,” he replied. “I did 
a bit of it when I was a boy, and I know . It’s just 
one of the man-made ‘thou shalt not’ command- 


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ments that never appealed very much to my sense 
of morality — that, and smuggling.” 

He was taking it all so good-humouredly. She 
felt her intended rebuke had fallen short. 

“I hope you won’t encourage him,” she said, 
with a slight sneer that came a little unnatural to 
her. 

“Not I,” he answered with a laugh; “but all the 
same I’m not a keeper — nor a policeman.” 

“Not in a moral sense?” 

“In my official capacity as a parson?” 

“Yes.” 

He thought a moment, screwing up his mouth 
with a quaint expression. Then he laughed out 
loud. 

“I was thinking of Friar Tuck and the king’s 
good red deer,” he said merrily, “and I was won- 
dering if any ecclesiastical council had ever 
pronounced against hare-snaring. But it’s all 
right, Miss Wrenfield,” he added; “I may even 
administer a stern rebuke to Thatcher, if I get the 
chance.” 

“ I think it might be good if you took that line. 
My father has spoken to him many times. He is 
a disgrace to the parish.” 

In a moment or two Ross suddenly changed the 
subject. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


79 


“Tell me,” he said abruptly, “who is this man 
who has taken a house just outside the village — 
Hill Croft, isn’t it?” 

“Mr. Philips. He’s only just come here. Have 
you made his acquaintance yet?” 

“No. I haven’t even seen him — except at 
a distance. I must call, I suppose. Who is he?” 

He repeated the question quite sharply. 

“He’s — well — I fancy a man of private means 
— a widower, with his step-daughter. We really 
know very little about them, except that they ap- 
pear to have been living abroad. Father and I 
met them casually when they came to look at the 
house. They were in church on Sunday, and I 
called on the daughter the next day — but she 
was out. They appear to be quite gentlefolks,” 
she added with an air of approval. 

“You don’t know what he’s been?” 

“No. They tell me he sketches. In fact, I 
saw him coming across the Downs only yesterday 
with an easel.” 

The servant opened the door. 

“Mr. Philips and Miss Bruce.” 

“Talk of the ’’Ross had begun, beneath 

his breath, when he suddenly stopped short. 
Miss Wrenfield, turning to her visitors, did not 
observe the sudden shutting of his mouth or the 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


pallor that spread over his cheeks. He got up 
from his seat and stood motionless, his back to the 
window, his eyes fixed on the door. Mildred 
Bruce came in, followed by her stepfather. Miss 
Wrenfield shook hands with them both. Ross 
still stood motionless, looking at the girl who en- 
tered. Once his eyes turned toward Philips, but 
he withdrew them quickly. 

Introductions followed, as a matter of course. 
Ross, however, made no attempt to take the girl’s 
half-proffered hand, but bowed stiffly to both of 
them. Nor did he resume his seat. He exchanged 
a few remarks with Philips, expressed an intention 
of calling, and then bade all good afternoon and 
went out of the room. 

Mr. Philips had seated himself with the ease of 
a thorough man of the world. Gertrude Wren- 
field glanced at him. He was dressed plainly, 
but faultlessly; his air and manner were those of a 
gentleman. She remembered that he had at- 
tended church, and she felt reconciled to him as a 
newcomer. He let his daughter do most of the 
talking at first, and presently entered the conver- 
sation himself. He was one of those men who 
have the knack of finding out exactly the points 
that interest others, and of making them, ap- 
parently, interest him equally. Gertrude 


LEFT IN CHARGE 81 

Wrenfield quite beamed when he spoke of her 
father. 

“It was such a mere glimpse I had of him that 
day we met,” he said, “and now I understand he 
has gone abroad for the winter. I do hope he will 
come back quite restored to health — and so, I 
am sure, all hope. I can see that he is worshipped 
in the village. The old man I have engaged to 
tidy up my garden is quite enthusiastic about him, 
isn’t he, Mildred?” 

“Yes,” said the girl; “he seems so fond of the 
Vicar.” 

“Is Mr. Ross your father’s curate?” he went 
on, to Gertrude Wrenfield. 

“Only just for a time — while he is away.” 

“I see. Well, I hope he will take good care of 
the parish.” 

He said it quite as a careless remark. But he 
was quick to notice that Miss Wrenfield received 
it in silence. He shifted the topic of conversation, 
drew her out on the chit-chat of the village, lis- 
tened attentively, was evidently so very much 
interested in church topics that Gertrude Wren- 
field found herself hinting to Mildred that help 
would be acceptable. There were Sunday schools, 
forthcoming concerts, and so forth. 

The girl laughed. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Em afraid I couldn’t do much in a Sunday 
school. I’ve never taught in my life. I might 
try though. But I sing a little.” 

“It would be so kind of you to help us in our 
little winter entertainments.” 

“She will,” said Philips, answering for her. 

The conversation turned on the church next. 

“It is such a beautiful church,” said the 
girl. “It’s almost the first time I’ve been in 
a real English country church. And I do like 
it.” 

“Wouldn’t you both like to come over and see 
it now?” asked Gertrude, who prided herself on 
an accurate knowledge of its architecture and 
history, and, out of pure love of it, delighted to 
show everything. 

“By all means,” said Philips. So she took them 
to the church, apportioned them a pew — Philips, 
who was behind her, smiled at her earnestness as 
she did so — and proceeded to show them the points 
of interest. Philips was delighted. He rejoiced 
over the Saxon doorway, revelled in the brasses, 
went into ecstasies as he examined the old oaken 
screen, and impressed his excellent taste and ap- 
probation so much upon Gertrude that she hesi- 
tated in her mind no longer as to whether or no 
she should ask the “neighbourhood” to call on 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


83 


them. In fact she said, as they came out and 
lingered in the porch: 

“I hope you won't find Adlington dull — and 
there are quite nice people in the neighbourhood." 

“I think I shall be very happy in Adlington," 
said Mildred; “I love the country." 

“Oh, we shan’t be dull," said her step-father. 
“Mildred is talking of gardening and all kinds of 
things already — and I have my hobby." 

“Oh, yes, you sketch, don’t you?" 

“A little. Quite in an amateurish way." 

“Do you shoot?" 

“I’m afraid I haven’t handled a gun for years. 
I used to — a little." 

“Mr. Ilbury has some shooting to let if you 
should want any. My brother used to think it 
very fair when he was here. By the way, he’s 
coming for a few weeks at Christmas, and would 
be pleased to have a companion." 

“That will be delightful. Is he a clergyman?" 

“Oh, no — I have one who is — but Harry, my 
youngest brother, is private secretary to Lord 
Brook — the Minister for Foreign Affairs, you 
know." 

It was just a bit of unconscious snobbery the 
bringing forth of this piece of information. In 
fact, among some of Gertrude Wrenfield’s inti- 


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mate friends, the phrase, “my brother, Lord 
Brook’s private secretary,” had passed into a pro- 
verbial saying. 

Even the old Vicar was worldly enough to be 
proud of his youngest son, who, after rather a 
harum-scarum university career, which included 
a term’s rustication, had taken a pass degree by 
sheer good luck, idled more or less for three years, 
finally to get introduced to his present post by one 
of those very sporting younger sons of the nobility 
against whose companionship his father had 
righteously warned him. And the old man had 
easily forgiven Harry’s rather irreverent remark 
about the ultimate wisdom of making friends out 
of the mammon of unrighteousness. After all, 
it was a Scriptural exhortation, the observance of 
which paid! 

Whether Philips was impressed or not with Miss 
Wrenfield’s remark about her brother, he certainly 
appeared to be lost in thought as he walked home 
with his step-daughter. The girl glanced at him 
once or twice and saw that his thoughts were far 
away. 

This step-father of hers had always been more or 
less of a mystery to her. Her mother had died 
when she was quite a child, and she had spent most 
of her life in schools, finishing her education in a 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


85 


convent abroad. Her step-father had appeared 
from time to time, they had travelled much on the 
Continent together, for, up till now, he had had 
no fixed home. He was always kind to her, she 
had no complaint to make on that score, quiet and 
amiable in his manner, and evidently possessed of 
adequate means. He never spoke of any work or 
profession, however, and was always reserved 
about any private affairs that he might have. He 
was an excellent linguist, speaking three or four 
European languages fluently, and a man of taste 
and education. 

Just now, as has been said, he seemed pre- 
occupied. When he reached Hill Croft he re- 
paired to a small room he had fitted up as a study, 
lit a cigar, and sat smoking it and looking out of 
the window thoughtfully, every now and then 
twisting his moustache. Presently he consulted 
the daily paper, and went through quite a pile of 
recent newspapers which lay on a chair. 

Then he closed his eyes and sat for quite a quar- 
ter of an hour thinking deeply. 

He got up from his chair suddenly. 

“ I can’t help it,” he muttered; “I’ve always 
thrown the stakes upon what chance brought me, 
and I’ve seldom failed. It’s a habit not easily 
shaken off. I thought I’d had my last throw of 


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the dice and had done with it. But no! I’ll 
have one more. The game’s exciting. Let me 
see — at all events I can’t go wrong in making in- 
quiries. And, as usual, I can’t be too careful.” 

He wrote a letter, carefully and deliberately 
sealed it, and put a stamp on the corner. He 
got up, and then hesitated. 

“No,” he said; “country folk are always sus- 
picious. I’d better not risk the village post- 
office.” 

He threw the letter into the fire, watching it 
burn out. Then, after consulting a Bradshaw 
and a cyclist’s map of the district, he wrote an- 
other letter which he put in his pocket. 

“I’ll post it at Wellborough to-morrow morn- 
ing,” he said to himself. 

Then he went to his room and dressed for din- 
ner. And at that meal he said to his daughter 
across the table. 

“I liked what I saw of Miss Wrenfield, and I 
hope you will make a friend of her, Mildred. Try 
and help in some of her parochial work if you can. 
I think we ought to show an interest in the life of 
the village — and, by the way, ask her to come 
and have tea with you one day next week.” 


CHAPTER VII 


The Reverend Howard Ross sat at his writing- 
table in his little sitting room, a sheet of paper in 
front of him. And on it was written the four 
words: 

“My dear Lord Bishop.” 

He leaned back in his chair, his pipe gripped 
tightly between his teeth. Suddenly there was 
a little cracking sound. He had bitten the vul- 
canite mouthpiece in two. He flung the frag- 
ments on to the table, took up his pen, laid it down 
again, and leaned back in his chair once more. 

A struggle was evidently going on in the man’s 
mind. His brows were knit and his eyes fixed 
on a gaudy lithograph on the wall opposite. 
Something had been the matter with him for the 
last two days. Mrs. Lovegrove had noticed it, 
and had mentioned the fact to her husband. 

“He sims pretty middlin’,” she had remarked. 
“Doan’t relish his vittles a bit. There be sum- 
mat the matter with ’un.” 

For his usual cheerfulness had departed from 
him during those two days, and he had been 
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silent and taciturn. He had scarcely set foot out- 
side his room, but had remained, hour after hour 
smoking many pipefuls of tobacco, lost in thought 
as he sat now. 

Suddenly he brought his clenched fist down on 
the table with a thud that upset the ink-bottle and 
sent its contents streaming over the sheet of letter 
paper. 

“HI face it — hang it all, I’ll face it!” he mut- 
tered doggedly. “It’s the part of a coward to 
turn tail and run. All right, ‘My dear Lord 
Bishop/ you’ll not hear from me after all.” 

He tore up the ink-stained paper and threw the 
fragments into the fire. 

“What’s more,” he exclaimed, “I’ll face it with 
a little pluck. I’ll play the game straight, as I 
made it. I’m just plain Howard Ross, the parson. 
I’ll say nothing, I’ll let them see nothing, and 
they’ll never know.” 

He was standing now, his back to the mantel- 
piece, erect in his magnificent height and physique. 
He looked for all the world like a fighting man, 
against the wall, defying odds. His eyes flashed, 
his hand clenched itself. Whatever had been the 
struggle within himself, it was evident that he had 
taken the braver course. 

“The Bishop’s put me here till the old man 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


89 


comes back, and I’ll not fail either of ’em. The 
thing’s happened in the line of duty, which they 
say’s a straight one, and I’ll just go straight. 
And I’ll not give the show away either.” 

He turned and glanced at the time-piece be- 
hind him. 

“ Three o’clock,” he said grimly; “time to do a 
little parochial visiting. I’ll call on this man 
Philips this very afternoon.” 

He put on his hat and took his stick from a cor- 
ner, whistling as he did so. He opened the door. 
Old Mrs. Lovegrove was in her room opposite and 
saw him. 

“You be a bit moare cheerful like, sir,” she said, 
with a smile. “I likes to hear a man whistle at 
times.” 

“I?” he said; “oh, I’m cheerful enough, thank 
you, Mrs. Lovegrove.” 

“You ’ent bin these two days.” 

“No? We all get fits of the blues sometimes; 
but I’m all right now.” 

“I be glad, sir. Shall ’ee be in to tea?” 

“Don’t know. Don’t get it ready till I turn 
up, see?” And he nodded cheerfully to the old 
woman. 

He reached Hill Croft an hour later, having 
taken a circuitous route over the Downs, walking 


90 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


with the air of a man treading under his thoughts 
as well as on the turf. He felt he wanted exercise, 
freshening-up, before he paid his visit. 

“How do you do, Mr. Ross? It’s very kind of 
you to call.” 

He was standing, his back to the door, looking 
at something which stood on the piano, in the 
corner of the room. He turned abruptly. Philips 
had come in very quietly and was advancing with 
outstretched hand. Ross took it, a little slowly 
perhaps. 

“ I ought to have looked you up before, but I’ve 
been busy the last two days.” 

“Glad to see you,” returned Philips pleasantly. 
“We’re both of us strangers in Adlington, eh? 
How long have you been here?” 

“Six or seven weeks. You came in a fort- 
night or so ago, I believe ? ” 

“Do sit down. Yes. We’re scarcely settled 
yet, but I think we shall like it. I’ve been want- 
ing a permanent home for some time, and al- 
though it’s a bit out of the way, my step-daughter 
and I are fond of the country.” 

“You’ve lived abroad, haven’t you?” asked 
Ross abruptly. “I think Miss Wrenfield told 
me so.” 

“Oh, I’ve been more or less on the Continent 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


91 


while Mildred — my step-daughter — was being 
educated. In fact, I’ve had no settled abiding 
place since my wife died.” 

“When did she die?” asked Ross. 

Philips’s gaze fell for a moment on the piano as 
he replied. Ross glanced there as well. There 
was a portrait of a woman standing on it, the one 
Ross had been looking at when Philips entered 
the room. 

“Almost twelve years ago,” said the latter. 
“We had not been married long. Mildred was 
only seven years old when she lost her mother.” 

“Poor little thing,” said Ross in a low tone; 
“ what became of her then?” 

“I had to send her to a boarding-school,” re- 
plied Philips, his face relaxing a little in response 
to the other’s evident sympathy. “It was the 
only thing to do. Really, you see, until now we 
haven’t been much together — except in her holi- 
days. She remained in a convent-school at Thil- 
donc until this spring. I wanted to give her a 
good education.” 

Ross turned his gaze on to the floor. Some 
strange emotion seemed to have touched him. 
He raised his eyes, glanced for just a moment at 
the other’s face, then looked out of the window 
and murmured: 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“That was good of you.” 

Philips elevated his eyebrows slightly. Per- 
haps he felt Ross was almost patronizing him 
with the spoken word of commendation. He 
changed the subject. 

“ You've been abroad, too, I understand — in 
the Colonies?” 

Ross replied, with sudden energy: 

“I’ve not seen England for years — more than 
I care to say. Pve been knocking about the 
world — all sorts of jobs. Mining. In the bush. 
Sheep-farming. In and out and up and down. 
And, by George, it suited me. I wonder I ever 
came back to the old country.” 

He said this with the air of a man making a 
statement to no one in particular, speaking tur- 
bulent thoughts that refused to be kept in, a half- 
defiant look on his face, ignoring, in his outburst, 
the man who was seated opposite to him. In fact 
he almost gave a start when the latter remarked : 

“And you finished up by becoming a parson?” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” 

There he was again, a man with his back against 
a wall, his head raised defiantly, his jaws snap- 
ping as he blurted out the question. 

Philips gave an almost imperceptible shrug of 
his shoulders. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


93 


“Indeed, why not? I don’t know much about 
the clergy myself, but I’ve often imagined they 
would have more influence if they saw more of 
the world first. They would understand life 
better.” 

“Understand life? Yes — if you can under- 
stand it. I’ve seen my share of it, but it’s a pre- 
cious puzzle still.” 

Philips looked at him curiously. 

“As a man of the world,” he remarked thought- 
fully, “ I don’t know that I wouldn’t sooner listen 
to a parson who honestly confessed to the perplex- 
ities of life, rather than to one of your cocksure 
clergy. But” — he broke off abruptly — “you’ll 
have tea. An old Australian never forgets his 
billy, eh? I’ll call Mildred and ask her to give us 
some.” 

He rose from his seat. Ross started up as 
well. 

“Oh — I don’t know that I ” 

“Nonsense. She’s out in the garden. I’ll go 
and fetch her.” 

Ross remained standing, digging his nails into 
the palms of his hands, gazing vacantly across the 
room. In a moment or two Philips came back 
with his step-daughter. 

If Ross was a man of the world, Mildred was 


94 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


certainly not a woman of the world. Most of 
her life she had viewed things from the inside of 
school and convent. But they had taught her a 
natural ease and simplicity of manner which 
were at this moment a sharp contrast to the awk- 
ward demeanour of the clergyman. 

She came forward quite frankly, with out- 
stretched hand. 

“How do you do, Mr. Ross. I didn’t know you 
were here till father told me, or I’d have come in 
and seen about tea. It’s awfully nice of you to 
come and see us so soon.” 

He took her hand with a sudden motion of his 
own and held it several seconds, murmuring a con- 
ventional greeting. She rang the bell and ordered 
tea. For the next few minutes Ross was very 
silent. The others made conversation. Philips, 
a little in despair, led up to the topic of Australia 
again. 

“Oh, do tell us something about your life out 
there, Mr. Ross,” said the girl. “I’ve always 
wanted to meet a real Colonial.” 

“I’m not a real Colonial,” answered Ross, “but 
I managed to develop into a fair sample of what 
they’re like, I suppose.” 

He lost his reserve, gradually, and talked. He 
told them tales of the diggings, and the lust for 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


95 


gold; he gave them vivid descriptions of his life in 
the bush. The girl listened attentively. 

“How dreadfully lonely you must have been,” 
she said presently 

He laughed shortly. 

“It suited me.” 

“Now I shouldn’t have thought it would.” 

It was Philips who spoke, slowly and deliber- 
ately. He was a judge of character, and he had 
been thinking as the other man talked. 

“Why not?” 

“I should have taken you for a companionable 
sort of man,” he said. “I can’t quite imagine 
you enjoying life apart from your fellows.” 

“ I didn’t say I enjoyed it,” retorted Ross bluntly. 

Philips smiled. His instinct had been correct. 

“What made you go to Australia, Mr Ross?” 
asked Mildred. 

“Oh — I had to get my living somehow, you 
know. And, after all, it’s a life that grows on one. 
I don’t know that I’ll be happier in the old coun- 
try. Once a fellow gets the roving spirit he doesn’t 
easily settle down.” 

“You were ordained out there?” asked Philips 
casually. 

“Six years ago. The best six years I had of it, 
too,” he added thoughtfully. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“How small the life must seem to you here,” 
said Mildred, who sat with slightly puckered brow, 
trying to contrast the Australian scenes with Ad- 
lington. He stirred his tea thoughtfully, looking 
at her. 

“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t know that it 
does. At all events, Pm glad I came here — for 
a time.” 

He was looking at her so earnestly that, in spite 
of herself, her gaze dropped before his. She 
busied herself with the sugar basin for a moment 
or two. When she looked up again he was stand- 
ing ready to depart. 

“Look here,” said Philips, “won’t you come 
and have an informal dinner with us on Thursday? 
Do.” 

“Thanks very much — I — I ” 

There was something in his hesitation, his at- 
titude perhaps, for once more he had fallen into a 
hesitating mood, that made the girl say: 

“Oh, do try and come — and tell us some more 
about Australia. I’d love to hear it.” 

“Yes, I will,” he ejaculated. “Thank you. 
Good-bye.” 

When Philips returned to the room after show- 
ing him out he found Mildred standing at the 
window gazing at the tall, well-built figure of the 


LEFT IN CHARGE 97 

clergyman as he walked down the path to the 
road. 

“Well, Mildred, what do you think of him?” 
She turned. He was lighting a cigarette. 

“Oh, father, I like him; don’t you? And I feel 
sorry for him.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s funny, perhaps; but it seems to me he’s 
a man who’s had a lot of trouble.” 

Philips puffed away thoughtfully for a moment, 
and then replied: 

“Perhaps you’re right, Mildred. He’s erratic. 
I can’t quite make him out. But I rather like 
him. How old should you think he was, Mil- 
dred?” 

“How old? Oh, I never thought. He might 

be oh, I don’t know, father.” 

“I don’t think he’s so old as he looks at first 
sight. I shouldn’t put him down for more than 
forty-five, in spite of his gray hairs.” 

“Forty-five? Why, that’s quite elderly, father! 
And I didn’t think his hair so very gray.” 

“ Sorry you think forty-five aged, Mildred. I’m 
nearly fifty myself!” 

The girl laughed. 

“Oh, but you don’t look it, you know; and Mr. 
Ross didn’t seem to me so very — middle-aged!” 


98 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Father,” she added presently, “ I want to go 
shopping at Wellborough if it’s fine to-morrow 
afternoon. Can you cycle in with me?” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. You can go, by all 
means. I shall be busy.” 

She looked up at him quickly. He had sud- 
denly adopted that tone of reserve which she had 
so often noticed in him. In spite of his unvarying 
kindness, she constantly felt that there was a bar- 
rier between them such as did not usually exist 
where father and daughter are concerned. As if 
to make this barrier more marked he murmured 
something about having letters to write, and left 
the room. She sat, pensively looking at the fire, 
half lost in thought. She was very young, but a 
strange sense of loneliness sometimes possessed 
her, in spite of her cheerful temperament. A con- 
clusion seemed to have come to her thoughts as 
she rang the bell for the maid to take away the tea 
’* things. 

“After all,” she said to herself, with a little 
shudder, “it’s not so lonely as the Australian 
bush!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


There were several outlying houses on the Downs 
appertaining to the parish of Adlington. Feeling 
inclined for a long ramble with an object in view, 
the Reverend Howard Ross started out one after- 
noon to visit these distant parishioners. It was 
a gray, heavy day, and a feeling of loneliness and 
oppression hung over the hills, while the lowlands 
were hidden in a mist that had begun to spread out 
from the track of the distant river. 

Ross walked over the damp grass with his steady 
swinging step, his nether limbs protected with a 
pair of stout boots and leggings. He chose the 
direction away from the Wellborough side, a re- 
gion he had not yet penetrated. He was soon 
out on the open Downs, past all traces of a regu- 
lar path. 

He made straight for a small cottage which 
showed up a dingy, red-brown mass against a 
background of dismal-looking fir trees. As he 
drew near to it he noticed that the patch of gar- 
den was uncultivated, a mass of tangled weeds. 
He glanced upward to the chimney. No vestige 
99 


100 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


of smoke was coming out. The place was evi- 
dently deserted. 

“H’m,” he said, “no one at home here, evi- 
dently. Let’s have a look, though.” 

At the back of the house was a yard, surrounded 
on three sides with a rough, hurdle fence, against 
which straw had some time or other been inter- 
twined, leaving the rotting remains. His quick 
perception solved the problem at once. 

“Used for lambing in the spring, evidently, with 
a straw shelter-fence — that’s it. Probably the 
shepherd stays up here then.” 

He went round to the front of the house. A 
few panes of glass in the windows were broken, 
the apertures stuffed with rags. He tried the 
door, and it opened at once into a little room. 

It was stuffy and smelly inside, and quite bare 
of furniture with the exception of a very old 
horsehair-covered sofa, much battered and worn. 
On the rough, uneven brick floor was a bundle of 
sticks, evidently gathered from under the trees 
outside, with fragments of broken hurdles, while 
in the dilapidated old grate was a heap of wood 
ashes. 

“Evidently the shepherd makes himself com- 
fortable when he’s up here,” he said to himself. 
“Let’s have a look upstairs.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


101 


This was impossible, however, as the door at 
the foot of the stairs was locked. The house, 
which belonged to Farmer Gringer, had not been 
inhabited for years, and, as Ross rightly surmised, 
was only made use of, in the lower regions, by old 
Josiah Lovegrove at such times in which he dared 
not leave his flock day nor night. 

He sat down on the crazy sofa for a minute 
and mechanically began loading his pipe. He 
struck a match, commenced to smoke, and, from 
force of habit acquired in Australia, where men 
learn that chucking lighted matches on dry 
grass is dangerous, carefully blew it out before 
he dropped it on the floor. As he did so he hap- 
pened to look downward. Lying in front of him 
were two small objects which arrested his attention, 
a half-smoked cigar and an extinguished wax vesta. 

Now the Reverend Howard Ross had lived for 
some years in the wild places of the earth where 
men are accustomed to notice the slightest signs 
and trifles, and the association of ideas was strong 
upon him. He stooped down, picked up the bit 
of cigar, rolled it through his fingers, looked at it, 
and sniffed it critically. 

“Some one’s been smoking an uncommonly 
good Havana,” he muttered, “and not long ago, 
either — the thing’s quite dry and crisp still.” 


102 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


He rose from the couch and picked up one of 
the bits of stick with bark on that was lying near. 

“ Thought so,” he said, as he felt it; “it’s moist 
— the place is damp. Then this cigar couldn’t 
have been here long. I wonder who it was.” 

Again, from the old force of habit, he dropped 
the cigar-end into his pocket and went outside. 
It was more lonesome than ever upon the Downs; 
not a soul was to be seen in any direction. He 
looked round him carefully: beyond, in the direc- 
tion in which he had been walking, he could just 
see a chimney above a little clump of stunted 
trees, and, with the keen eye of one used to the 
bush, he made out a tiny thread of blue smoke. 

“ Right!” he exclaimed; “ there’s a bit of hu- 
manity about after all. Let’s get on!” 

It was another solitary cottage which he reached 
this time, but inhabited. A middle-aged woman 
received him, and seemed pleased to see him. 

“We doan’t often get a minister out here,” she 
said. “The Vicar, ’a comes once in a while, but 
’tis a smart waay from y^r^lin’ton.” 

“Ah, you’ve got a lonesome little station here,” 
said Ross, lapsing into an Australianism. 

The woman looked a trifle bewildered. 

“Station, sir?” she said. “Oh, you mean’s 
Marton Station, I suppose — that be a matter o’ 


LEFT IN CHARGE 103 

three mile further on — ’tis on the branch line 
to Fenbury.” 

“I meant your cottage, as a matter of fact,” he 
replied. “Do you live all by yourself?” 

“Me and my husband, sir. ’A works over at 
Marton. ’Tis a long waay for he to walk, but 
this was the nighest cottage to be had, so we has 
to put up wi’ it. But I be alius glad to see he 
back o’ nights, for there ’ent much company 
athert th’ Downs.” 

He chatted to her for a time and then she said : 

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, I was just a-goin’ to 
hev a cup o’ tea. Might I offer ’ee some?” 

“Just what I should like,” he answered; “put 
the billy on by all means.” 

“The billy?” 

“Kettle, you know — I’m beginning to think 
I’m back in the bush.” 

She bustled around, cut some thick bread and 
butter, and made the tea. The day began to 
grow darker. She glanced out of the window. 

“’Tis a mist a-comin’ on,” she said; “it be 
tur’ble unked on the Downs when ’tis thick. Do 
’ee know the waay back to ^r^lin’ton, sir?” 

“Oh, I think I can find it all right.” 

“’Tain’t so easy, even to them as knows the 
country. From Marton there’s a bit o’ a path, so 


104 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


my husban’s all right, but I should advise ’ee to 
staart soon, sir, afore it gets dark.” 

He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It 
was about half-past four. Then he got up and 
opened the door. A thick, white fog was sweep- 
ing down. 

“Yes,” he said, “perhaps Td best be getting 
on.” 

“Thank’ee for callin’, sir. Bide a minute, I’ll 
show ’ee th’ best waay.” 

She came outside with him. 

“You kip straight along the bottom o’ this dip,” 
she said; “’tis easy to know it, because the grass be 
so long. About half a mile on the path from Mar- 
ton to Ard\in\on crosses it. When you gets to 
that path, turn to your left. ’Tain’t much of a 
path,” she added, “but ’tis there right enough!” 

He thanked her and proceeded on his way. The 
fog closed in rapidly and, after a bit, he found con- 
siderable difficulty in keeping to the bottom of the 
“dip,” stumbling over tussocks of long grass and 
sundry mole heaps. The light grew worse and 
worse. After a while he thought he must be get- 
ting near to the path, and tried to find it — more 
with feet than with eyes. But no trace could he 
discover. He veered round to the left and walked 
on and on. The silence was intense, broken only 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


105 


by the swish of an occasional tuft of grass against 
his boots. He stooped over and over again and 
strained his ears to catch some sound — the crow- 
ing of a cock, the tinkling of a sheep-bell — but 
none came. 

After a while he began to get a little vexed. He 
was engaged to dine with Philips that evening. 
Although he had a distinctive dislike toward the 
man, he had no wish to appear on unfriendly terms. 
Neighbours were few and far between in the coun- 
try, and Ross was fond of the society of his fellow- 
men — whoever they were. Besides, he rather 
looked forward to seeing Mildred. 

He glanced at his watch, striking a light to do 
so; just six o’clock. He had been walking hard 
for an hour and a half then. 

‘‘Oh, bother it all,” he exclaimed. “I can’t be 
lost on a piffling little bit of open country like this! 
It’s ridiculous. I must be somewhere near the 
village now.” 

He started again, quickening his pace. Pres- 
ently something loomed dark just in front of him. 
He advanced cautiously. 

“Trees, eh?” he said, as he touched the trunk of 
one; “come, that’s better. I’ve got to the edge 
of something, at all events.” 

He pushed his way through the trees, and sud- 


106 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


denly stopped short. Just in front of him, show- 
ing very dimly through the fog, was a glimmer of 
light. 

“ Hullo, : ” he muttered, “Pm in luck. Struck 
a homestead. Now we can ask the way — what? 
By Jove! Why it’s the empty shanty I passed 
this afternoon! I must have been spinning round 
on my tracks. Let’s see who’s inside, though. 
This is funny.” 

He crept up to the blindless window very stealth- 
ily and looked through. A little fire of sticks 
was fitfully burning on the brick hearth. Before 
it, on the floor, his back propped up against the 
old sofa, sat a man, and as the flickering light 
played upon his face, Ross recognized him. 

The parson grinned. 

“All right, my friend,” he murmured, “I’ll en- 
joy seeing you in a bit of a fright.” 

He made his way on tiptoe to the door, found 
the latch, and burst into the room suddenly with 
a stentorian, “Hullo!” 

Jim Thatcher sprang to his feet, faced him, 
doubled his fists mechanically, and commenced : 

“Wot the hell !” saw who it was, and re- 

mained tongue-tied for the moment.. 

Ross stood at the entry, smiling at him. 

“Cold night, Thatcher!” he said, pleasantly. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


107 


“Wot be you a-doin’ up here, then, sir?” asked 
Jim Thatcher sullenly, his muscles slowly relaxing 
to their normal tension. 

“Well, I think I might ask the same ques- 
tion of you, my friend. This isn’t your house, is 
it?” 

“No, ’t ’ent,” growled the man, “but I ’ent 
doin’ no one no harm by restin’ in it, be I?” 

Ross seated himself on the sofa. 

“What I want to know is this,” he remarked. 
“Isn’t it a bit dangerous to light that fire? It 
might have been — shall we say John Martin — 
instead of a poor lost parson, you know.” 

A sly look stole over the other’s face. 

“Not him! ’a be gone into Wellborough this 
evenin’ — that’s where John Martin be.” 

“Oh, I see. So you are here on poaching intent? 
I think I can solve the little problem. A handy 
place to work from to-morrow morning No one 
will see you coming out of the village, eh? You 
might spend a night in a worse show — I have, 
often. Got your supper, too, eh?” and he jerked 
his pipe toward the poacher’s outer pocket, from 
which protruded the neck of a bottle. 

Jim Thatcher’s grin vanished. 

“ You know too much,” he said, “but they can’t 
do nought to I for takin’ shelter here — even if 


108 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


you goes and tells John Martin, or the bobby all 
about me — I doan’t care.” 

“You’re a fool!” retorted the Reverend How- 
ard; Ross “I don’t agree with your business, but it 
isn’t mine to go sneaking to others about it; I’m 
here to preach the Gospel, not to play the 
amateur policeman.” 

Jim Thatcher reflected. 

“Mister Wrenfield ’ood ha’ telled ’em.” 

“Mr. Wrenfield would not be likely to be wan- 
dering about the Downs this time of night. I tell 
you it’s no business of mine — except to say that 
you might earn regular money with less risks.” 

The poacher expectorated into the fire. 

“It’s the risks as I enjoys,” he remarked, as the 
grin broke out on his face once more. “Thank 
’ee, sir,” he added; “I knows you mean what you 
says and I believes ’ee.” 

“That’s all right then. All the same, remember 
my advice is — chuck it! Now look here, I don’t 
want to disturb you, but you must put me in the 
way of getting back to Adlington. How long will 
it take me?” 

“I’ll taake ’ee to a path where ’ee can’t goo 
wrong — and you ought to get there in about half 
an hour.” 

“Right!” exclaimed the other, looking at his 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


109 


watch; “that gives me time to smoke out this 
pipe and rest my legs. By the way, do you ever 
smoke cigars ?” 

“T’ent often as I git the chance — I ’ent 
smoked ara cigar — not since last Whitsun Feast 
Daay.” 

“I see,” said the clergyman thoughtfully; “will 
you have one now, then?” 

“Thank’ee, sir.” 

“I suppose,” went on Ross, handing his case, 
“that very few people ever come out here?” 

“That’s right. ’Tis a lonesome, out o’ the waay 
plaace, and no one comes a-nigh it — ’cept the 
shepherd at lambing time.” 

“And yourself?” asked Ross, dryly. 

“ ’T ’ent often as I does, neither. Sometimes 
’tis handy, though.” 

“Always at night?” 

Jim Thatcher shook his head. 

“I’ve been here afore now all daay — whiles 
they was a-keepin’ a lookout, and I couldn’t get 
back — without losin’ summat.” 

“You’d have been in the wrong box if they’d 
thought to poke their heads inside that door, 
eh?” 

The old, cunning look came upon the other. 
His eyes twinkled in the firelight. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“John Martin did , once, sir — but ’a never 
seed I!” 

“How was that?” demanded Ross. 

Jim Thatcher hesitated. 

“You wunt split?” he asked. 

“No.” 

He put his hand in his pocket and produced an 
old key. 

“This here fits the stairway door,” he ex- 
plained, “and John, ’a warn’t smaart enough to 
think o’ lookin’ up there, especially as I locked ’un 
behind I when I went up!” 

Ross laughed. 

“You’re precious cute,” he said, “but you’ll be 
caught one o’ these days.” 

“I hev a’ bin — more nor once.” 

“Well, and it wasn’t pleasant, was it?” 

A joyous, reminiscent look stole over Jim 
Thatcher’s wicked face. 

“Once I were taken wi’ one o’ old Gringer’s 
hares in ma pocket,” he said, reflectively. “They 
had ma afore the magistrates, down at Well- 
borough, and they fined ma — wi’ costs — a mat- 
ter o’ eighteen shillun’s. I was hard up and I 
hadn’t got no money, so I asks for a week to pay 
’em in. And they give ma the toime.” 

“And did you get the money?” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


111 


“Ah! when th’ p’liceman come for it ’a got it 
— every penny.” 

“How did you get it?” 

Jim Thatcher winked deliberately. 

“Snared some moare o’ old Gringer’s hares, and 
sold ’em — that’s how I got it!” 

The Reverend Howard Ross threw back his head 
and laughed heartily, slapping his leg as he did so. 

“Who buys poached game?” he asked, pres- 
ently. “Isn’t it a job to get rid of it?” 

“Oh, there’s plenty o’ folks as buys it — folks 
as you wouldn’t think of. The trouble is to 
ketch it!” 

Ross glanced at his watch again and said he 
must get on. The two men went out of the house, 
Jim Thatcher leading the way quickly and with- 
out hesitation. 

“There ’ent ara fog as is thick enough to hinder 
I from findin’ ma waay about the Downs,” he said 
with a chuckle. 

Presently he stopped short. 

“Can ’ee maake out this bit o’ track?” he asked. 

Ross felt with his feet. There was a distinct 
pathway, a couple of ruts caused by cartwheels 
and a rough horse track in the centre. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said, cheerfully; “we 
should call it a main road where I come from.” 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Follow ’un straight along, sir, till ’ee gets to a 
big white stoane on the right. Turn off shaarpe 
by he — and you can’t goo wrong.” 

“Thanks very much. And what are you going 
to do?” 

“Good-night to ’ee, sir,” replied Jim Thatcher 
abruptly, plunging into the mist. 

Ross found his way back to the village without 
difficulty, changed his clothes, and was at Hill 
Croft in good time. It was a good, recherche little 
dinner that Philips gave him, and, after his long 
ramble, he thoroughly enjoyed it. He mentioned, 
casually, that he had been overtaken by the fog 
while out walking, but he made no allusion to the 
cottage on the Downs, chiefly because he had no 
wish to compromise Jim Thatcher — or condone 
with him either. 

“I suppose you smoke?” asked Philips, when 
Mildred had made her solitary retirement into 
the drawing room. 

“I do.” 

His host went to a cabinet and took out a couple 
of boxes of cigars. 

“I don’t know which you like best,” he said as 
he opened them; “these Manillas are not bad, 
but I rather fancy the Havanas myself.” 

“I’ll have an Havana, then, if I may — thanks.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


113 


He rolled the cigar in his fingers for a moment 
or two before he lit it, took a few puffs, and then 
gazed at it thoughtfully. 

“Is it all right ?” asked his host. 

“Quite good.” 

He leaned back in the chair and half closed his 
eyes. 

“I suppose you’re getting used to the country 
round here. Fine, open bit of ground, isn’t it?” 

“Very — though I haven’t been very far as yet.” 

“The village is compact enough, but there are a 
few lonesome homesteads out on the Downs.” 

Philips flicked the ash off his cigar. 

“Are there?” he asked; “oh, very possibly.” 

Ross noticed, through his half-closed eyes, that 
the other man was looking at him keenly. He 
made one or two more remarks upon the neigh- 
bourhood, and then the conversation drifted into 
other topics. Politics came up in due course, but 
Philips was not interested very much in them, had 
lived so long abroad that he had lost touch with 
things, did not seem to know very much about the 
present government, and frankly declared that he 
hardly belonged to any party. 

Presently Ross laid down the end of his cigar 
on an ash tray, and the other proposed an ad- 
journment to the drawing room. As he rose to 


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open the door the clergyman quickly took up his 
cigar end, extinguished it by pressing it down on 
the tray, and dropped it into his waistcoat pocket. 

Mildred Bruce played. Then songs were pro- 
duced. It turned out that Ross was musical and 
knew a couple of them, which he sang in a rich 
baritone, and Philips lounged on the sofa, saying 
very little. The evening passed pleasantly. His 
host bade him adieu cordially, and he walked 
home to his quiet lodgings. The old couple had 
been in bed for two hours or more, but had left 
the door on the latch and a light burning. Ross 
poured himself out a moderate peg of whiskey, 
reached for his jacket which was hanging behind 
the door, and the next moment was poring over two 
cigar ends which lay on the table in front of him.” 

“Same brand,” he said, presently, “and a good 
brand, too. ’Tisn’t likely any one about here 
smokes them. Now why did he lie to me about 
the Downs? He did, Pm sure. There was no 
harm in a chap smoking half a cigar in a deserted 
cottage. What I want to know is why did he 
want to make out he hadn’t been there? I shall 
keep my optic open. I don’t trust him, somehow. 
And yet — yet he seems fond of the girl. 

“And she of him,” he added, after smoking 
thoughtfully for some minutes. 


CHAPTER IX 


Mrs. Lovegrove had just been “up street” to the 
one shop of the village, and was returning laden 
with sundry parcels comprising bacon, tea, soap, 
and black lead. It suddenly struck her that she 
might pay a friendly call on John Martin’s mother. 
She found that worthy in a chronic state, as usual, 
of bad legs. 

“Come in, Mrs. Lovegrove. The plaace be all 
in a caddie; I ’ent been able to tidy ’un up yet. It 
do tire me so, a-standin’ about.” 

“Ah, poor thing, ” replied Mrs. Lovegrove, with 
a sympathetic sniff; “you ’ent no better, then?” 

The Widow Martin shook her head, dismally. 

“My legs sim to get wuss every week. They 
be tur’ble swelled to-daay.” 

“’Tis a tur’ble affliction, Mrs. Martin. 

“That ’tis. And I doan’t suppose as I shall ever 
get no better on’t.” 

“Jane Watkins was just the saame as you be, 
and she were took off wi’ it. Suffered summat 
crooel, she did,” remarked Mrs. Lovegrove, by 
way of consolation. 


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116 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Ah! and I expects ’t wool be th’ end o’ I, 
too!” 

“We must all git ready to goo,” said the other 
old lady, with great solemnity; “there’s no 
knowin’ when we shall be took.” 

“There ’ent,” assented the widow; “here to- 
daay and gone to-morrow. I often thinks how 
true that be. None on us knows, as you ses. It 
might be me first, or it might be you first. Why,” 
she went on pursuing the subject with great satis- 
faction, “you as looks so well an’ hearty a-settin’ 
in that chair, you might be called awaay afore you 
gits back whoam! There ’ent no knowin’, be 
there ? ” 

Mrs. Lovegrove shuffled on her seat, feeling a 
little uncomfortable. 

“Lord forbid I should boast o’ lookin’ so well as 
I sims to be accordin’ to outward appearance,” she 
exclaimed, apprehensively. “ I ’ent never felt as I 
should ever since I had conjecture o’ the lungs and 
brown ti’is a year ago come Chris’mas!” 

“That’s what I means!” retorted Mrs. Martin, 
very sombrely and grimly. “Them as looks in 
good health often ’ent — and they goes off sudden 
accordin’.” 

Mrs. Lovegrove felt she had entirely failed in 
her defence. Neither looking in good health, nor 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


117 


boasting of not doing so, was a panegyric in face 
of the dire theory propounded by her neighbour. 
She made shift to change the subject. 

“I thought Fd just drop in and cheer ’ee up a 
bit,” she remarked. 

“Ah! I tries to keep cheerful, Mrs. Lovegrove. 
’Tis seldom as I says a word about my pains and 
suffering. ’Twun’t mend ’em, so I must put up 
wi’ ’em. I hadn’t seen ’ee this fower weeks, but I 
suppose you’re purty well tied down, now the new 
paarson’s a-lodgin’ wi’ ’ee?” 

“He doan’t give I much trouble.” 

“I’d ha’ bin glad to ha’ had ’un here if I’d bin 
strong enough to ha’ took ’un,” went on the widow. 
“’Twould ha’ helped to paay Hammond what I 
owes ’un. But I doan’t grudge no one else their 
good fortin’, Mrs. Lovegrove,” she added, with a 
touch of maliciousness, aforethought. 

“We shouldn’t ha’ took ’un, only ’twas to 
oblige the Vicar.” 

“I doant grudge your a-takin’ on ’un,” repeated 
Mrs. Martin, with deliberate emphasis, “because 
I doan’t loike what I seen of ’un.” 

Mrs. Lovegrove gave an indignant and con- 
tradictory sniff. 

“We think a lot of ’un — Josiah and me.” 

“/ misses the Vicar, bless ’un,” retorted the 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


widow. “This here ’un come to see I ’t other 
daay, a-smilin’ and a-crackin’ joakes, ’a was. 
When the Vicar comes ’a sets down in that chair as 
you be in, and ’a reads a chaapter — beautiful ’a 
reads ’un, and I feels the tears a-streamin’ down 
ma cheeks.” 

“I likes ’em boath. This ’un’s younger and 
moare cheerful like, but ’a ’ent none the worse for 
that, be ’a?” 

Mrs. Martin shook her head. 

“When you has legs saame as what I got, and 
one on ’em in the graave, as ’ee might say, you 
doan’t want folks as is too cheerful,” she replied, 
“and I doan’t like ’un, Mrs. Lovegrove.” 

She might have added that she missed the cus- 
tomary half-crown which invariably ended the 
Vicar’s chapter. It may have been that her visi- 
tor was perfectly well aware of this from the re- 
mark which the latter made: 

“You hadn’t ought to feel so low spirited, Mrs. 
Martin. You’ve got a son to be proud of, reg’lar 
and respectable, and arnin’ as good money as ara 
one in ^n/lin’ton.” 

The widow sighed deeply. 

“Ah, John’s a good lad — but ’t is tur’ble un- 
ked work what ’a’s took to. I never knows when 
’a ’ll come in or goo out. Sometimes ’a’s on they 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


119 


Downs all night, and I lies awaake' wi’ ma legs 
achin’ and ma heart a-beatiil’, thinkin’ on ’un 
and prayin’ th’ Lord to keep ’un saafe from they 
poachers — or not to let his own gun bust, like 
I’ve heered tell they does sometimes. There’s no 
one knows what I go through o’ nights and I 
never says a word about it to nobody!” 

Mrs. Lovegrove was only partially impressed. 

“The poachers ’ud be much moare likely to run 
awaay from ’un,” she replied, “and, ’t’ent so baad 
for he as for Josiah at lambin’ time — up daays 
and nights he be. I doan’t suppose your John 
minds it much. You be lucky to have ’un. 
What ’ud ’ee do if ’a was to marry, Mrs. Martin?” 

Mrs. Martin raised hands and eyes simulta- 
neously. 

“I dunno — I never cares to think about it!” 
she exclaimed — as one touching the verge of an 
unspeakable horror. “You ain’t heered as ’a be 
gwine to it, have ’ee?” she asked, suddenly, a 
fearsome dread coming upon her. 

Mrs. Lovegrove sniffed once more — an irri- 
tating little sniff this time. 

“No, I ’ent heered — only what some folks be 
a-sayin’ — but I never taakes no notice o’ gossip. 
I’ve got summat else to think about, thank the 
Lord!” 


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Mrs. Martin forgot her bad legs. She rose from 
her chair and walked quite briskly across the little 
room. 

“What be folks a-sayin’, then?” 

“Oh, nothin’ partic’lar, as I knows on. Only 
I heered summat about him and Ruth Thatcher 
bein’ a good-lookin’ pair.” 

“Ruth Thatcher!” exclaimed the widow. 

“I’ve alius felt sorry for she — since her poor 
mother died. She’s a hard workin’ gal, though 
she hev a got a good for nothin’ feyther.” 

“ ’T’ent true!” ejaculated Mrs. Martin. 

“I doan’t suppose ’t is. I can’t abide sich gos- 
sip. Well, good afternoon, Mrs. Martin — I 
hopes you’ll have a happy Chris’mas if I doan’t 
see you afore then.” 

She went on her way home with much self- 
complacency, conscious of having performed the 
Christian act of visiting a neighbour in a method 
that was extremely pleasing. 

Widow Martin sat in her chair, resentful. Her 
first thoughts were about her visitor. 

“What do she want to come a-pryin’ into other 
folks affairs, for? — a gossippin’ old ’ooman, she 
be! I never interferes wi’ she. She alius was one 
to talk about what don’t consarn her. Reg’lar 
upset I feels!” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


121 


The cause of it loomed heavy in her mind. One 
of the great dreads of her existence was that John 
would marry — any one. It was not that she had 
a grudge against her son, but a feeling of mingled 
jealousy and selfishness. She used to try and 
fancy what would happen. Either she would 
have to make her home elsewhere or remain in the 
cottage with the eternal presence of her daughter- 
in-law in haunting irritation. The gloomy fore- 
bodings on this particular afternoon were inter- 
rupted by the appearance of John himself. 

He put his gun carefully in the corner and hung 
his hat on the peg behind the door. She bustled 
around with the tea things while he sat down and 
stretched his legs comfortably before the fire. 

“Tired, John?” she asked, as she spread butter 
and cut off a big hunk of bread. 

“Ah! I’ve bin trampin’ around a smaartish 
bit. The maaster’s a-comin over to-morrow to 
shoot, and there were things to see to first.” 

“You be glad to set down, then.” 

“I be.” 

She poured out the tea and they began the meal. 

“You wunt have no one to git your vittles com- 
fortable when I be gone,” remarked Widow Martin 
suddenly. 

John grunted, with a full mouth, something 


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about “stoppin’ nonsense.” It was not that he 
lacked filial sympathy. Only he was accustomed 
to similar remarks, and had been for a long time. 

“Ah, well,” went on his mother, with a sigh, “I 
dessay as you’ll git married and ’twull be all 
right.” 

John mumbled something to the effect that 
“there was time enough for that.” 

“Sometimes I thinks you’ll marry some ’un 
afore I be gone.” 

“I hopes I shall,” he answered, between the sips 
of his tea. 

She put down her cup and looked at him. 

“I means I hopes you’ll be here for many a year 
yet,” he explained; “you doan’t want me to wait 
till I be an old man afore I marries, if I maakes 
up my mind to ’t, do ’ee, mother?” 

“When you be an old man — ah, and afore you 
leaves off bein’ a young ’un — my legs wunt trouble 
me no moare,” she replied with gloomy satisfac- 
tion. 

“Cheer up, mother!” 

For the corner of her apron had been slowly 
lifted to her eyes, and this was a thing he hated. 

She refused to cheer up, but obstinately pursued 
the topic of matrimony. Every single girl in 
Adlington was mentioned tentatively as a possible 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


123 


bride, and the things that were said of some of 
them by the way were strictly libellous. John 
Martin lit his pipe and listened, stolidly, occas- 
ionally agreeing with libellous details, occasionally 
contradicting them, but otherwise evincing little 
interest. The list was, at length, exhausted. 

“There ’ent no one else, not as I knows on,” 
concluded Mrs. Martin. 

There was some one else whom she knew of very 
well, but John did not think fit to correct the 
omission by bringing in the name of Ruth 
Thatcher. Nor was his silence on this point un- 
observed. 

What he did say, however, was an attempt at 
levity. 

“Yes, there be, mother — there’s Maggie 
Gringer, and Ilbury’s niece what stays with ’un 
sometimes — oh — ah — and Miss Wrenfield. I 
might ask one o’ they if she’d have ma!” 

The widow actually smiled at this pleasantry. 

“Oh, they might do wuss,” she said, with a 
laugh and a glance of pride at her son. “I’ve 
often wondered, though, as Miss Wrenfield ’ent 
ever found her ara husband.” 

John Martin paused in the act of conveying a 
lighted match to his pipe. 

“Got a chance now, ’ent she?” he remarked. 


124 LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Who?” 

“This here new paarson. Then when the old 
’un dies ’ a could be Vicar, couldn’t ’a?” 

He spoke with a very vague notion of ecclesi- 
astical preferment. 

“And there’s some as ’ud like that,” he added. 

“And there’s some as ’oodn’t — and Miss 
Wrenfield’s one on ’em. He ’ent her sort.” 

“P’raps she ’ent his’n,” replied the young man, 
getting up and reaching for his cap. 

“Where be goin’?” 

“Only up street,” he answered, in the usual 
formula of the village lounger. 

“I thought you wor tired?” 

“So I be,” he said, with a taciturn expression as 
he raised the latch and went out. 

In the road it was pitch dark. Adlington folks 
knew nothing of street lighting. The old people, 
if they ventured abroad, carried lanterns, the 
younger ones walked by instinct or lounged about 
silently in gloomy corners, marking all passers- 
by. One patch of light shone out halfway along 
the street. The village shop boasted of two oil 
lamps, and half a score of boys gathered outside 
like moths nightly, flattening their noses against 
the glass to gaze at saucepans, dingy biscuit tins, 
somebody’s prize packets of tea, and other heter- 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


125 


ogeneous articles in the window, beyond which 
might be observed sundry customers, to say noth- 
ing of the intense pleasure of watching the goods 
they were buying, especially when snuff could be 
discerned being served out to old Susan Finch, at 
whose exit a chorus of sneezes would be raised. 

John Martin had fared forth that night not 
exactly without an object. Nine times out of ten 
direct assignations were not made in Adlington. 
If you wanted to see some folks you went to the 
“ Wheatsheaf,” and waited till they turned up; if 
you were intent on the other sex you never called 
at her door. You lounged on the other side of 
the road and she came out by instinct, or else you 
coughed loudly or whistled with your own idio- 
syncrasy of style. Another method was to stand 
beyond the fringe of boys, your back up against a 
convenient fence, a low-growing tree shading 
your face, and centre your gaze on the shop front. 
For it was wonderful how the younger women put 
off purchases till after dark and then “just run 
over to shop” for a penny reel of cotton or a packet 
of starch. 

This particular evening John Martin had the 
fence to himself. There was a counter attraction. 
Old Fidler, who lived at the other end of the street, 
was known to have gone home heavily beery after 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


a refusal on the part of Elisha Norris to draw any 
further pots for him, and a portion of the more 
youthful population were waiting opposite his 
cottage anent such time as “’a should come out 
and holler,” an exquisite performance which 
usually took place under these circumstances after 
a stormy interview with his acid-tongued better 
half inside. At which seasons he was wont to 
come forth and declaim to all within hearing sun- 
dry episodes in his wife’s earlier career which were 
more discreditable than instructive — and were 
listened to accordingly. 

John waited patiently for close on half an hour. 
Old Fidler had just commenced “ hollerin’ ” when 
Ruth Thatcher appeared, silhouetted against the 
shop window, and went inside. The next move 
was a wary one. It was not the custom to make 
salutations in the full glare of the lamps. You 
slowly took your shoulders from the fence and 
lounged “up” or “down” street, as the case might 
be, in order to meet her in a purely accidental 
manner on her way home. This John Martin did. 

“Hullo, Ruth! How be?” 

“Oh, ’tis you, is it? I didn’t know ’ee till ’ee 
spoke.” 

“Where be goin’?” 

“Whoam. What did ’ee think?” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


127 


She swung the little parcel she was carrying by 
a string on her finger to and fro. 

“ I be goin’ your way.” 

“ You wasn’t when I met ’ee ” 

“I be now, though.” 

“You changes your mind pretty sudden.” 

“I ’ent changed my mind about you.” 

She tossed her head a little. They were walk- 
ing side by side now — slowly. Scraps of con- 
versation passed between them. At length they 
reached Jim Thatcher’s cottage. 

“Doan’t ’ee goo in yet, Ruth.” 

“Why not?” 

“Walk up to th’ owd tree and back first, wunt 
’ee?” 

“Feyther ’ll be wantin’ I.” 

“No ’a wunt. I seed ’un goin’ to public. ’A 
wunt come awaay afore ten.” 

“Why can’t ’ee let ’un aloane? Alius a-watch- 
in’ on ’un, ’ee be!” 

They were strolling beyond the cottage now. 

“I couldn’t help a-seein’ on ’un — I warn’t a- 
lookin’ for ’un.” 

“But you be — on they Downs.” 

“I be paid for doin’ o’ ma work. I doan’t 
see as you should think none the less o’ ma for 
that.” 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


The girl was silent for a moment or two. Then 
she replied, suddenly: 

“Who said I did? But I doant want ’un to be 
locked up agen.” 

“’Tis lonesome when ’a be awaay, eh?” 

“T’ent that,” she replied shortly, “’a be my 
feyther, b’ent ’a?” 

He understood perfectly. It was a terrible 
problem this, love and duty being both strong. 

“Let’s forget he,” he said presently; “I wants 
to talk to ’ee, Ruth ! Somehow I never sims to get 
ara chance to saay what I wants to.” 

“It’s quiet enough here,” answered the girl 
demurely. 

In spite of his asserted desire to talk, the next 
hundred yards was passed in dead silence. Then 
he said, abruptly: 

“I doan’t see as I shouldn’t do what I chooses 
in my own time. Will ’ee come for a walk next 
Sunday arternoon, Ruth?” 

He could not see in the darkness the little flush 
that overspread her face. He only noticed that 
she seemed to have lost something of the pert 
manner which she generally assumed toward him 
in daylight. After a pause she said: 

“You be talkin’ nonsense.” 

“Will ’ee come, Ruth?” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


129 


“I dunno.” 

“I’ll wait for ’ee up at the earner o’ Black’s 
lane — ’bout two o’clock.” 

“I dunno.” 

“You will come, wunt ’ee?” 

“I dunno.” 

Another long interval of silence followed. Then 
she said: 

“Did ’ee saay two or half-past?” 

“Two o’clock — then you be cornin’, my dear?” 

“I tell ’ee I dunno!” she retorted with marked 
asperity: “Hark!” 

They had reached the outskirts of the village 
now, and were just opposite Hill Croft. A sound 
of music came from the lighted window in front of 
the house. Mildred Bruce was at the piano. 
They could hear her singing in the still night dis- 
tinctly. 

They paused by the gate and leaned over it, 
listening in silence. Presently the song ended on a 
prolonged high note. 

“Can’t she holler!” remarked Ruth Thatcher, 
in admiration. 

“Oh, she can that. Come along, Ruth.” 

“Wait a minute. She be goin’ to sing agen.” 

John Martin swung round philosophically to 
lean his shoulders against the gate post, while 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


Ruth, in order to hear better, crept just inside 
upon the path. Suddenly there came a blinding 
stream of light in his face, and as he started to an 
upright position, a man’s voice exclaimed sharply: 

“What are you doing here?” 

It was Philips himself with a pocket electric 
torch. He had crept up softly and unobserved 
along the grassy track by the side of the road. 

“We was only a-listenin’ to the music, sir,” re- 
plied John Martin, apologetically. The light still 
glared in his face and his eyes were blinking. 

“Who are you?” asked Philips, abruptly. 
“Ah,” he added, as he turned the light on to Ruth. 
“And who are you?” 

“I be John Martin, sir — and this young ’oo- 
man was taakin’ a stroll with me.” 

“An Adlington man, are you?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Oh, very well,” replied Philips, in a mollified 
voice, “I see. But,” he added, the sharp tone in 
his voice rising once more, “I object to having 
people hanging round my premises — and coming 
into my garden, d’ye understand? Good-night.” 

“Good-night, sir,” answered the young man, 
abashed, but civil, as he and the girl turned away. 
Philips kept the torch pointed at them for a few 
moments and then walked up the path to his 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


131 


house. Mildred must have heard his step, for she 
opened the door to him. 

“You’re very late, father,” she said. 

“There was a fog in London,” he explained, 
“and the return train was delayed. I’m quite 
ready for dinner, Mildred, for I’ve walked 
back from Wellborough and it’s given me an 
appetite.” 

Meanwhile John Martin and Ruth Thatcher 
were strolling homeward, arm in arm now. 

“Quite give ma a staart, ’a did,” remarked 
John. 

“Simmed a bit staartled himself by the waay 
’a spoke,” said the girl. 

“Ah, didn’t ’a? Quite put out like, warn’t 
’a?” 

“You might a’most ha’ bin arter he — saame 
as arter feyther,” said Ruth, with a little laugh. 

“Ah, well,” replied John Martin, dismissing 
the subject, “’a ’ent one o’ we folks, so we must 
expect ’un to be a bit queer.” 

At Jim Thatcher’s cottage they parted, and the 
parting was thus : 

“Well — then ’ee’ll come a Sunday?” 

“I telled ’ee I dunno, didn’t I?” 

The door slammed in his face, but somehow 
he went away happy, to give his mother, from 


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past recollection of similar scenes, a graphic 
description of old Fidler’s “ hollerin’ ” that 
night. 

Nevertheless the widow went to her bed sus- 
picious. 


CHAPTER X 


The Reverend Howard Ross settled down to his 
life at Adlington steadily and quietly. The vil- 
lagers had begun to take him as a matter of course, 
a thing thrust upon them whether they liked it or 
not. Not that they resented him. After all, he 
was but a stop gap until the Vicar’s return. In- 
deed, they rather liked him than otherwise. 

“’A be so plaain spoaken,” was the verdict on 
one of his sermons. “Any one could see as ’a 
were preachin’ at Jim Blake ’a Sundaay night.” 

He wasn’t. He had no idea of Jim’s proclivities 
when he held forth on honesty. But it is always 
comforting to fit caps on other people’s heads and, 
in this case, much increased the self-righteousness 
of the congregation. 

In other ways, too, he advanced in the esti- 
mation of the village. He always had a bluff, 
kindly greeting; he was sympathetic in cases of 
sickness, he would smoke a pipe with Farmers 
Gringer and Ilbury, and be interested in the state 
of the cattle and corn markets. The agricultural 
labourer pure and simple is taciturn and unre- 

133 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


sponsive, but arrives at conclusions sometimes, 
nevertheless, and although he had not much to 
say in the hearing of Ross except “ Yaas, sir,” and 
“No, sir,” he would state it as a fact to his com- 
rades in the tap-room of the “Wheatsheaf ” that 
the new parson, “didn’t sim a baad sort o’ chaap.” 
Which was, really, the highest eulogy. 

“Tho’ ’a do meddle wi’ what doan’t consarn 
\m,” they added. 

Which was a comment on his energies in regard 
to the lads of the village, a phase little understood 
by those to whom the Vicar was an ideal parson. 
Among other things, he had inaugurated a foot- 
ball club, getting a grudging consent from Farmer 
Ilbury to the use of a field — for which he paid 
out of his own pocket. Every Saturday afternoon 
he coached a medley of boys in the game, chiefly 
striving to break them loose from the inherent 
instinct of kicking shins instead of the ball, and 
wrangling with uplifted voices as to the want of 
fairness in the tactics of opponents. Football had 
not been played in Adlington for thirty years. 
No game ever is played in a village unless the par- 
son, the squire’s son, the doctor, or some other 
person to whom caps are touched by instinct, or- 
ganizes it and keeps it going, continually putting 
his foot down on the would-be quarrelsome. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


135 


All these things came under the searching gaze 
of Gertrude Wrenfield. She had, from the first, 
resented the man. Accustomed to keeping folks 
in their place, even if she did not know it, she had 
made the same attempt with Ross. He was her 
father’s curate. She was the representative of her 
father. That is how she argued the matter. She 
had failed in several things. He still paid visits to 
the tap- room, even if he did not drink. More than 
once she had caught herself biting her lip in cha- 
grin when she remembered the charge she had 
made against him and the utter collapse thereof. 
He still consorted with the man Thatcher. And 
his lads’ class was a decided success. One or two 
of her own boys, shrewd critics, had told her so. 

And she knew very well — that was where the 
touch of resentment still came in — that he had 
succeeded just where she had failed. Of course, 
there were those who sought to delude her for 
expedience’s sake and lively sense of favours to 
come in the shape of Christmas beef and coal, an 
example being the Widow Martin. 

“Ah, miss, I do miss the Vicar tur’ble. I was 
only a saayin’ last night to John as the plaace 
doant somehow sim the saame wi’out ’un. This 
ere new clergyman be all very well, I dessay, but, 
as I says to John, Doant you feel as how there’s 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


summat wantin’ when you be in church; I says, 
a sort o’ feelin’ o’ real worship as the Vicar alius 
puts into th’ sarvice?’ And John, a’ said, ‘You 
be right, mother, ’t’ent like they beautiful sar- 
mons the Vicar preaches; these as we has to listen 
to now b’ent.’ Not as I says a word agen Muster 
Ross, miss; I dessay ’a means well, but we ’ent 
used to ’un.” 

Somehow, even then, Gertrude Wrenfield ques- 
tioned within herself whether the widow was 
speaking the exact truth in witnessing to her son’s 
verdict. She had seen John’s face, as he sat in the 
choir the previous Sunday evening, reflected in 
her organ glass while Ross was preaching. She 
had often seen the same face before, reposeful, 
eyes tightly shut, during the Vicar’s discourses. 
But now he had been leaning forward, listening 
intently, a broad grin of approval breaking out 
when Ross had spoken pretty plainly and with 
more regard to truth than erudition of style. 

No! The truth was being borne in upon her 
that there was, at least, some reason in the Bish- 
op’s choice, and — but this she hardly was will- 
ing to shape into a definite thought — that Ross 
possessed a strength of character, beneath his 
casual exterior, that perhaps claimed admiration 
as well as resentment. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


137 


She met him at the close of one Saturday after- 
noon early in December, coming down the village 
street from the football field, his pipe in full blast, 
his boots muddied over the ankles, his cap stuck 
on the back of his head, amid a small group of 
boys who were arguing at the top of their voices 
as to points in the recent game. When they saw 
Miss Wrenfield they immediately quieted down 
into the subdued attitude they were accustomed to 
put on in her presence. He pulled his pipe out of 
his mouth, took off his cap, and stopped her. 

“Get along home, you kids,” he exclaimed to 
the boys. And off they went. It appeared he 
only wanted to ask her a question about some 
hymns for the next day’s services. The matter 
having been settled, she hesitated for a moment. 
It was really an effort to her to ask the man what 
she wanted to ask him. 

“We generally get up a few simple little con- 
certs in the winter, Mr. Ross — one of them just 
about this time of the year. Local talent is 
limited, and I was wondering — well — I’ve heard 
you singing bass in church.” 

“You want me to give ’em a song?” 

“If you would.” 

“It’s years since I did anything in public. I’m 
quite out of it.” 


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“We are not a critical audience.” 

He smiled. It was decidedly not flattery. But 
he rather liked her bluntness. 

“I’ve got a few old songs at my diggings — if 
it’s really any use my trying. But I haven’t 
practised them for a long time. Would you play 
the accompaniment if I looked up one or two?” 

“Certainly; I should be pleased.” 

“Then I’ll bring them up to the Vicarage. 
When?” 

“Well,” she said, as if making up her mind, 
“why not this evening? Miss Bruce is coming to 
try over some songs. Won’t you come and have 
some tea with us?” 

He did not answer immediately. When he did, 
it was to say, abruptly: 

“I’ll come later. I must go home and change 
first.” 

He left her, and she wondered a little at his 
change of manner. He walked to his rooms at a 
good, swinging pace, biting his pipe mouthpiece 
hard. The mention of Mildred Bruce seemed to 
have had some effect upon him. Since he had 
been to dinner at Hill Croft he had avoided seeing 
Philips or his step-daughter. The mystery of the 
cigar had puzzled him, but there was evidently 
something else. A struggle was going on within 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


139 


the man; for, as he changed his clothes that after- 
noon, he muttered: 

“The thing’s fate, and I’ll let it take its course. 
While I’m here I’ll not fight against it. Why 
should I ? They can never know — and God 
knows I’ll never say — or do her harm. Besides, 
it may be fate with a reason. I don’t trust Philips. 
There’s something strange about him, and I know 
he lied when he said he knew nothing of the Downs. 
It may be I’m here to save the girl from some- 
thing. I’ll not shirk things any more. I’ll go at 
once to the Vicarage. And I’ll make her see I’m 
her friend!” 

He gave a bitter laugh as he said this. 

At the Vicarage, he was quite himself again — 
even to merriment. Mildred was there, with a 
little portfolio of music. 

“ I’ve never sung in public in my life,” she said, 
as Gertrude Wrenfield looked over her songs, 
“and it makes me feel quite nervous to think of 
it.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be such an ordeal as you 
imagine. Shall we try this?” 

It was a simple little ballad. The girl sang it 
without a touch of affectation, in a voice that was 
very sweet and clear, standing by the side of the 
piano, her face in the full glow of the lamp. Miss 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


Wrenfield turned on her music stool as she fin- 
ished, and her glance fell on Ross. His eyes were 
fixed on Mildred, fixed so intently that he made 
no remark when Gertrude asked him if he had 
not liked the song. 

For just a moment Gertrude Wrenfield in- 
voluntarily compressed her lips, a strange feeling 
sweeping across her as she noticed the man’s in- 
tensity of expression. She glanced from him to 
Mildred, and the thought that flashed upon her, 
she could hardly tell why, was this : 

“ She’s only a schoolgirl!” 

And there was, perhaps, just the shade of a 
patronizing tone in her voice, as she said out loud : 

“Thank you so much. What a very pretty 
song. And I see you have been well trained.” 

“We had a very good singing master at Thil- 
donc,” replied the girl simply, “and I love music. 
Do you really think it will do?” 

“Do?” exclaimed Ross; “of course it will. 
And it’s one of my favourite ballads. I love it, 
and it just suits your voice.” 

Gertrude Wrenfield noticed the strong personal 
tone of his remark. 

“Shall we try another?” she asked a little 
coldly. “Yes — I think this might do.” 

This time she glanced at Ross while she played. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


141 


Evidently, the man’s whole soul was centred in the 
singer’s face. Mildred must have noticed it too, 
for her colour heightened ever so slightly, and she 
turned her head a little to one side. 

After this, Ross himself tried over a song — a 
dashing, patriotic thing — which he sung in a 
rich bass voice, his head thrown well back, with 
plenty of force and expression. 

“It’s got a rollicking chorus, you see,” he said, 
when the music stopped, “so I thought it would 
go down — I shall ask ’em all to join in, you 
know.” 

Miss Wrenfield elevated her eyebrows a little. 

“They are not accustomed to that at Adling- 
ton,” she said. 

“Aren’t they? Oh, they’ll tumble to it all 
right if I give ’em a lead. Look here, Miss Wren- 
field, I’ll sing the chorus myself first, and then, 
when I say, ‘Chorus, please!’ you just give ’em 
a chord first, if you don’t mind — just to start it.” 

Gertrude Wrenfield caught the whimsical look 
on Mildred’s face. The girl was evidently amused 
at the calm way in which Ross had taken things 
into his own hands. And Gertrude felt she was 
actually being ordered about by him. She was 
just about to say that she did not think her father 
would approve of such a proceeding as a general 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


142 

chorus — “ concerts” in Adlington had always 
been stiff and conventional, with the village police- 
man at the back of the room to put down sternly 
all applause in the way of feet hammering by the 
youth — when she remembered the result of her 
former expostulations. She would wait for an- 
other opportunity. She was not going to have 
Ross arguing the point in his easy, chaffing fashion 
before this girl. 

At that moment Mildred looked at the clock. 

“My father promised to call for me a little 
after six,” she said, “but he is late. I ought 
really to be getting home.” 

It was a natural remark from a rather unso- 
phisticated girl, but Miss Wrenfield, in her heart 
of hearts, put it down to a nature that was not 
unsophisticated, especially as the inevitable im- 
mediately happened. 

“ HI walk back to Hill Croft with you — with 
pleasure.” 

And Ross sprang to his feet. 

“Oh, thanks so much — if you don’t mind.” 

Gertrude Wrenfield came to the door to see 
them off, and held it open, looking after them as 
they disappeared, side by side, into the darkness. 
After she had closed it, she stood for a moment or 
two in the hall, her hand still upon the door fasten- 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


143 


ing. When she returned to the drawing room she 
looked, half mechanically, at her own reflection in 
the glass over the mantelpiece, smoothed a stray 
wisp of her hair, set in its proper place a vase that 
had been led astray by the maid when dusting, 
glanced again at the glass, tapping one foot a little 
impatiently upon the fender as she did so. 

“It is a good thing he will only be here for 
a time,” she said to herself. “He takes things 
too much into his own hands. It might cause 
trouble.” 

Then she added, suddenly: 

“She ought to have waited till her father came 
for her. But he seemed pleased enough to take 

her home. Did he oh, she’s a mere child! 

Ridiculous!” 

And she sat down to prepare the morrow’s les- 
son for her class. She was longer over it than 
usual that night. It seemed difficult to concen- 
trate her thoughts on far-away Biblical subjects. 
The Collect for the day spoke about reading, 
marking, learning and inwardly digesting the Holy 
Scriptures. There are times when we can’t. Pres- 
ent humanity is too strong upon us. 


CHAPTER XI 


After seeing Mildred home that evening Ross 
returned to his lodgings and settled down to the 
composition of his Sunday’s sermon, but, like 
Miss Wrenfield, he found a difficulty in concen- 
trating his attention. 

Every now and then he leaned back in his chair 
and began humming the tune of a certain ballad 
that kept ringing in his ears over and above the 
sense of the commentary on St. Paul’s Epistle 
which lay on the table before him. 

At eight o’clock came a sniff outside and a tap 
at the door. In answer to his “come in,” Mrs. 
Lovegrove entered with his modest, cold supper 
on a tray, and began to lay the table, talking as 
she did so. 

“’Tis goin’ to be a wet night, sir. The rain, it 
jist do come down.” 

“I can hear it.” 

“I know’d the weather ’ood be baad by ma 
rheumatism. Well, sir, let’s hope Chris’mas ool 
be fine. ‘Twull soon be here now.” 

“So it will, Mrs. Lovegrove. And I’m looking 

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LEFT IN CHARGE 


145 


forward to it. I haven’t spent a real English 
Christmas for years. It comes in the summer- 
time in Australia, you know.” 

Mrs. Lovegrove put the cheese on the table and 
looked up at him with awe. 

“Lord, what heathenish nations they furrin’ 
paarts do be, to be sure, sir! Chris’mas in the 
summer! No wonder they wants to send out 
missionaries to convert ’em!” 

“ Pm afraid all the missionaries in the world will 
never change the seasons, Mrs. Lovegrove,” re- 
plied Ross, with a smile. 

The old woman shook her head and sniffed. 

“’Tis saad to think how hard-hearted they be, 
’ent it, sir? Have ’ee got everything as ’ee 
wants?” 

“Yes, thank you.” 

She paused a moment. 

“I suppose Master Harry ’ll be cornin’ down for 
Chris’mas?” 

“Who?” 

“Master Harry, sir. The Vicar’s youngest 
son. Reg’lar harum-scarum young man ’a were 
too, when ’a were a laad. His feyther had rare 
trouble wi ’un, but ’a be settled down now. And 
I alius liked ’un. Comes to see Josiah and me 
whenever a’s in ^n/lin’ton.” 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Oh, yes. Miss Wrenfield told me about him. 
Private secretary to the foreign minister, isn’t he? 
Yes — he’s coming in a day or two.” 

“There won’t be many on ’em a-spendin’ Chris’- 
mas up at the Vicarage. Only him and Miss Wren- 
field. I’ve put the bell on the table, sir. Will ’ee 
ring ’un when you be ready for ma to taake awaay ? ” 

Ross soon finished his solitary supper, and was 
about to ring the bell when a knock, a loud, single 
one, came at the outer door. The next moment 
Mrs. Lovegrove announced that Jim Thatcher 
wanted to speak to him. 

He went out to the man, who stood, dripping, 
on the threshold. 

“Come in, Thatcher,” he said, cheerily. 

“I be tur’ble damp, sir.” 

“Never mind. There’s a good fire.” 

The man followed him in awkwardly, Mrs. Love- 
grove giving a suspicious little sniff as he did so. 
Arrived in the room, Jim Thatcher stood, twisting 
his cap in his hands. 

“Sit down, man — here, near the fire.” 

The poacher seated himself gingerly on the edge 
of a chair, and began: 

“I wanted to tell ’ee summat, sir.” 

“Oh, wait a bit. Let’s be cozy. Mrs. Love- 
grove, you can clear away, please.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


147 


When this operation had been performed and 
Jim Thatcher was duly provided with tobacco, 
the latter began again: 

“I couldn’t maake up ma mind what to do at 
first, sir. Then I thought as you was one as 
could be trusted. So I corned to ’ee. Only,” he 
went on, jerking his thumb toward the door, “I 
doan’t want no one else to hear what I be goin’ 
to saay.” 

“All right,” replied Ross, seeing that the door 
was fastened; “if you speak in a low tone no one 
can hear. The old lady’s a bit deaf, and I heard 
Josiah going to bed just before you came in. 
What’s it all about? You’re not in trouble 
again, I hope?” 

“No, sir. ’Tent nought to do wi’ I. But 
I’ve come across summat that’s queer, and I can’t 
maake ’un out.” 

“Well, let’s hear it.” 

Jim Thatcher took his pipe from his mouth. 

“You know that old cottage o’ Muster Grin- 
ger’s, where you found I t’other night? Salt 
Box, they calls it.” 

Ross nodded. 

“Well, I were there this mornin’. Got sum- 
mat in ma pockets as I didn’t want no one to see. 
And John Martin was a-hiding in t’ round clump. 


148 LEFT IN CHARGE 

I seed ’un goo in. So I was bound to kip out o’ the 
waay.” 

“I see,” said Ross, a smile breaking over his face. 

“Well, sir, arter a bit I could see, out o’ the 
winder, John Martin come out and go toward 
Fuzzy Bank. I was jist a-goin’ to clear out, when 
I taakes another look, and there was a man a- 
comin’ across the Downs straight for where I was 
— cornin’ from the direction o’ Ard\m\on. I 
could maake out who ’a was at fust, but I didn’t 
want ’un to see ma, because no one but you knows 
as I goes to that cottage — and ’twas only by 
accident as you found out. I warn’t a-goin’ to 
chanst it.” 

“Did you see who he was?” 

“Ah! You bide a minnit, sir. When ’a got 
near I seed ’twas the gentleman what’s took Hill 
Croft.” 

“Mr. Philips?” 

“Ah! ’A was a-carryin’ his paintin’ things, 
and I begun to think ’a was a-goin’ to draw the 
cottage and to wonder how I was to get out wi’out 
his seein’ ma. Well, when ’a’d got about fifty 
yards or so awaay ’a pulled out his watch, looked 
at ’un, and then ’a stood for a bit a-gazin’ hard 
over Marton waay. Then ’a maade straight for 
where I was.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


149 


“What did you do?” 

“I telled ’ee I got a key as fits the stairway 
door? I slipped through and turned th’ lock 
from inside arter ma. None too soon, neither, 
for I heered ’un come into the room and strike a 
match. Then I smelt the cigar ’a were a-smoa- 
kin’.” 

“Well,” hazarded Ross, “there wasn’t much in 
all this. He probably wanted to have a quiet 
smoke out of the cold wind, eh?” 

“You wait, sir. There’s moare to come. I 
slipped off ma boots and crept upstairs, meanin’ 
to lie low till ’a was gone. There’s a winder in the 
upper room that looks athert th’ Downs toward 
Marton. And I could see another man on th’ 
horizon a-comin’ toward the cottage as fast as ’a 
could walk. I took care as ’a didn’t maake ma 
out at th’ winder, but I took stock of ’un as ’a 
caame through th’ old garden. Short, dark, 
clean-shaven chaap — Irish.” 

“How do you know he was Irish?” asked Ross, 
sharply. 

“Cause I know’d one once, and this ’un spoke 
in the saame sort o’ voice when ’a come into 
Philips.” 

You acted the part of eavesdropper then?” 
remarked Ross, a little coldly. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Oh, I wondered whaat they wor up to, a- 
meetin’ in that out o’the waay place, so I 
creeps downstairs agen and puts ma ear close 
to the door.” 

“Look here, Thatcher,” interrupted Ross, knock- 
ing his pipe against the fire-bar to clear it of 
ashes, “I don’t approve of playing Paul Pry, and 
if you overheard any private concerns of Mr.Philips 
I think you’d best keep them to yourself, Fm not 
interested.” 

He was, however, in spite of his remark. All 
the time the man had been talking he had been 
thinking of that half-smoked cigar, and the ob- 
vious wish of Philips to make it appear that he 
knew nothing of the outer Downs. But his sense 
of square dealing was stronger than his sense of 
curiosity. 

Jim Thatcher leaned forward, and spoke in a 
low voice. 

“Beg yer pardon, sir, but I thinks you ought to 
know what they was a-talkin’ about. It con- 
sarns young Mr. Wrenfield!” 

“Young Mr. Wrenfield?” 

“Ah! Marster Harry, as we alius calls ’un in 
^rilin’ton. And it consarns ’un, too, as far as 
I can see, in a waay as doant mean no good to ’un. 
That’s why I thought I ought to tell ’ee, sir. I be 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


151 


fond o’ Marster Harry; why, ’t was I as teached 
’un to snare rabbits when ’a were a boy, and I 
’oodn’t like no harm to come to he.” 

“Get on with your story, then,” replied Ross, 
curtly. 

“I couldn’t rightly hear all they was assayin’; 
they spoke so low, but it simmed to I that this 
here Philips had been a settin’ t’other chaap to 
find out all as ’a could in Lunnon about Marster 
Harry’s doin’s up there, what sort o’ company ’a 
was a-keepin’, and how ’a were spendin’ his money 
and so on.” 

“That’s queer,” remarked Ross, reflectively. 

“’Ent it?” 

“What sort of things did this other fellow tell 
Philips?” 

“A lot as weren’t no good. Said as how Mar- 
ster Harry was a-gettin’ into debt, a-gamblin’ and 
horse racin’ and what not, and owed a lot o’ money. 
Said ’a was a easy-goin’ feller what any one could 
soon get over, and that ’a know’d Master Harry 
was a-worryin’ lest Lord somebody or other 
should hear of his debts and gi’ ’un the sack.” 

“The Irishman said all this?” 

Jim Thatcher nodded. 

“An’ a lot more like it.” 

“And what did Philips say in reply?” 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Simmed reg’lar pleased, ’a did.” 

“Pleased, eh?” 

“ Ah, the moare t’other chaap told ’un o’ young 
Marster Harry’s money troubles, the moare ’a 
chuckled and kep’ sayin’ ‘Good, good,’ as if ’a had 
a spite agen ’un.” 

“What happened then?” 

“I couldn’t hear all on’t, but Philips a-finished 
up by sayin’ as how t’other un were to find out any 
moare as ’a could, and to let ’un know. ‘Best 
not write,’ ’a said, ‘but if you wants to see me 
again send me a wire sayin’ day and time and I’ll 
meet you here, or I might send you a wire if I 
wants you for anything.’ Then ’a asks if any one 
had noticed ’un a-comin’ down that daay, and 
t’other chaap says as how ’a be too used to this 
sort o’ gaame to giv’ hisself awaay.” 

“Well, and what then?” 

“I crep’ upstairs agen. The Irish chaap, ’a 
comes out, looks all round ’un careful like, and 
maakes over the Downs, Marton waay. In 
about a quarter o’ an hour Philips does the saame, 
only he goes back to ArdYm’ton. I hid till they 
were gone and then come home. I’ve been a- 
thinkin’ about it all daay, and I says to myself, 
Muster Ross knows what’s what; I’d best tell he 
about ’un!” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


153 


Ross smoked his pipe in dead silence for about 
five minutes. The other never took his gaze 
from him. 

“What do it mean, sir?” 

“I don’t know,” answered the clergyman; “it’s 
a strange story. I was wondering if I ought to tell 
Harry Wrenfield. He’ll be here in a short 
time.” 

“I ’oodn’t, sir.” 

“Why not?’ 

“You doan’t know Marster Harry, sir. He 
’oodn’t like one as has to do wi’ his feyther to 
know as ’a were in money troubles. ’A’s orkard 
at times, and ’a either ’oodn’t believe ’ee, or, if ’a 
did, ’a’d goo straight to Philips and asked what ’a 
meant by it. Then there ’oodn’t be no findin’ 
out what Philips’ little gaame be.” 

Ross thought again. 

“You’re a shrewd chap, Thatcher,” he said, at 
length, “and I do believe there’s something in 
what you say. You must leave me to think 
things over a bit. Now, look here — you haven’t 
told any one else?” 

“Not me!” 

“Good! Then you keep your mouth shut and 
your ears open, see?” 

The poacher grinned. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“That’s what I bin’ a-doin’ of moast o’ ma life, 
sir,” he said. 

“I may want your help. There — fill up your 
pipe, man — and, good-night.” 

He took Jim Thatcher to the door, came back to 
his room, and sat up far into the night, smoking 
pipe after pipe. The strangeness of the thing 
baffled him. Look at it how he might he could 
conceive of no reason why Philips was making 
these secret inquiries concerning Harry Wrenfield. 

“I didn’t cotton to Philips from the first,” he 
thought, “but then there was a cause for that, and 
I thought I might have been prejudiced. I’ll have 
to work this out, somehow, and get to the bottom 
of things. If he’s going to play any monkey tricks 
of any sort on the youngster, Howard Ross ’ll try 
and put a spoke in his wheel and upset the apple- 
cart.” 

He began to think whether it would be well to 
take Gertrude Wrenfield into his confidence and 
tell her what Thatcher had communicated. But, 
no. He felt she would scarcely credit the truth 
of the poacher’s story, it sounded so unlikely. 
Besides, the only effect would be that she would 
probably warn her brother, and he quite agreed 
with Thatcher that this would never do. 

“ I’ll not tell her yet — at all events,” he said to 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


155 


himself. “It’s no good bothering her. And Fm 
sure it would worry her. She’s not a bad sort — 
a bit narrow in her outlook, that’s all. But that’s 
not her fault. I believe she’s real grit, and would 
show up well if it came to making a stand. She’s 
got pluck in trying to boss this show while her 
dad’s away — especially as I fancy she don’t care 
for me very much,” and he smiled grimly. “It 
was plucky of her to tackle me as she did. I like 
her for it — Ah!” 

A new phase of the problem was flashing across 
his mind. If this man Philips was up to “monkey 
tricks,” what about his stepdaughter Mildred? 

“She can’t be hand in hand with him in any 
dirty game!” he exclaimed. “She’s too young 
and innocent for that. And if it is a dirty game 
he’s playing — and she finds it out — oh, poor 
child, poor child! What’s to be done?” 

And he knocked his pipe furiously on the fire- 
bar to clear it of ashes. 

“I know!” he ejaculated. “She wants a friend 
— a woman friend, to stand by her if she loses 
faith in her stepfather. She’d be all alone in the 
world, else. And I — no, no, no — I couldn't! 
Gertrude Wrenfield’s the woman to do it. I know 
she’s a sympathetic nature, in spite of her bossing 
ways. If she’d just show a little of it to Mildred 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


— if she’d just understand the girl’s got no mother 

— she’d be some one to whom Mildred could turn 
if there was trouble. I’ll do that. I’ll ask her to 
be kind to the child. For she’s real grit at heart. 
I’m sure of it!” 


CHAPTER XII 


Widow Martin was seated at her table, on which 
was a small bottle half full of weak ink — weak 
because of the water that had been added to it 
from time to time as the original pennyworth, 
purchased twelve months ago, decreased. There 
were also other writing materials, consisting of a 
very rusty pen, and the remains of a packet of 
cheap notepaper and envelopes. 

The task was no easy one. Once, and only once 
a year, the Widow Martin wrote to her sole sur- 
viving sister, and that was the sum total of her 
correspondence unless some extraordinary cir- 
cumstance arose. According to Mrs. Martin’s 
mind such a circumstance had now arisen, and she 
was attacking the task with grim determination 
and a strong lack of proper orthography and 
punctuation marks. 

At length it was completed, much to her 
satisfaction, and with a moderate number of 
smudges. And it read thus: 

“Dere sir, i wish you wood cum and se me i 
want to speak to you if you dont mind i cannit cum 
157 


158 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


round for my legs is that bad i has to lay up it is 
partikler about wat i want too sa if you cum be- 
fore six mi sun is out as this is private hoping you 
are well as it leves me at pressint with pane in mi 
legs as there aint no cure. 

“Yours truely, 

“Elizabeth Martin” 

She enclosed this in an envelope and directed it 
to “Mr. Thatcher.” Then she hobbled to the 
door, opened it, and looked out. Some children 
were playing in the road. 

“Tom Blake, here! I wants ’ee a minnit.” 

Tom Blake looked round and eyed Widow 
Martin dubiously, trying to remember if it was at 
her door he threw that stone last week. 

“I wants ’ee, I saay, Tom Blake. I’ve got a 
ha’penny for ’ee!” 

The small boy came to the conclusion that the 
stone in question must have been thrown at the 
next door, and advanced accordingly. 

“Have ’ee sin Jim Thatcher about this arter- 
noon?” 

The boy nodded. 

“Be ’a up whoam?” 

The boy shook his head. 

“Where be ’a then?” 

“I seed ’un go to public.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


159 


“Look ’ee, then. You taake ’un this note and 
wait for an answer. When you brings it back you 
shall have a ha’penny. Taake it up to th’ ‘Wheat- 
sheaf.’ ” 

Tom Blake was back in five minutes, breathless. 

“What did ’a saay?” 

“‘Damn th’ old ’ooman! What do she want, 
I wonder? Tell her I’ll come now,’” replied Tom 
Blake, with an accuracy of memory which his 
teacher in school had never remarked. 

Having received the halfpenny, he started 
straight for sweets at the village shop, three other 
youngsters speculating on his generosity follow- 
ing in close pursuit. 

Widow Martin described the next five minutes 
to a neighbour afterward, as a time in which she 
had “tur’ble tremblin’s all over like.” She sat in 
her chair, waiting for the knock to come. In due 
course it did. 

“Come in!” 

The door was opened a foot or so, and Jim 
Thatcher’s face, with its wickedest grin, came 
peering round the edge of it. 

“This ’ent a plant o’ John’s, be it?” he asked, 
with due caution, conscious of the eternal war- 
fare which circumstances demanded between 
them. 


160 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“No, Mister Thatcher, ’t ’ent. John doan’t 
know as I sent for ’ee. Come in, please.” 

Slowly he came inside, shut the door, and re- 
moved his hat. At the widow’s instigation he sat 
on the edge of a chair. It was a clean and com- 
fortable little room, the fire was burning brightly, 
and it all looked very cozy. Mrs. Martin began: 

“Dessay you wonder why I asked ’ee to 
come?” she said. 

“Ah! ’T ’ent often as I gets an invitation from 
a lady,” he replied, with mock gallantry. “What’s 
it all about?” 

“I want to speak to ’ee about John, Mister 
Thatcher.” 

“I hopes you ’ent got nothin’ agen your son,” 
he said, solemnly. “John’s a young man as I 
likes — when I doan’t see too much of ’un. I 
hopes ’a ’ent got into trouble?” 

“You knows very well what John be a-doin’ 
on,” answered the widow. 

He shook his head. 

“Wish I did — sometimes,” he said, with a 
short laugh. 

“I means wi’ your Ruth.” 

“What?” 

“John be a-walkin’ out wi’ your Ruth o’ Sun- 
days.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


161 


Tim Thatcher looked up, a bland and innocent 
expression upon his face. 

“Will ’em walk out together next Sunday?” he 
asked. 

“Likely as not.” 

“I wish ’ee’d tell ma what toime they staarts 
then, Mrs. Martin.” 

The widow looked at him, slightly perplexed. 

“D’ye want to catch ’em, then?” she asked. 

“No. I doan’t partickler want to catch them” 
he said. “I were a-thinkin’ about summat else.” 

In a dim sort of way Mrs. Martin began to infer 
that he was making fun of her. She spoke with 
more asperity. 

“D’ye mean to tell ma as you doan’t know as 
John is a-courtin’ she?” 

“She ’ent said nothin’ about it,” he answered, 
with much gravity. “Ruth’s a deep ’un!” 

“She he!” exclaimed the widow, getting a little 
angry. “And it ought to be put a stop to. You 
doan’t want my John to marry your gal, do 
’ee?” 

Jim Thatcher rubbed the top of his head re- 
flectively. 

“I doan’t know nought agen ’un,” he said, 
slowly. “’A be a smaart, decentish chaap. And 
’a’s got a good naame in ^n/lin’ton. ’A ’ent one 


162 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


as goes to public — or a poacher — or anything o’ 
that!” 

Mrs. Martin’s anger was risingfast. JimThatcher 
was taking the thing in a very different way 
from that in which she fondly and foolishly had 
imagined he would. She had expected that the 
hatred of the poacher for the gamekeeper would 
bring forth wrath on the mere idea of an engage- 
ment being suggested, that the last man Jim 
Thatcher would want for a son-in-law would be 
the individual who was eternally on the lookout 
for his evil ways. Instead of this, Thatcher was 
calmly paying her son ironical compliments. 

“Look ’ee, Mister Thatcher,” she said, her col- 
our rising with her temper, “ ’Tent no use to 
mince matters about the sort o’ man you be — 
the plague o’ my pore son’s life, let aloane my 
lyin’ awake o’ nights when ’a’s out, for fear o’ his 
bein’ murdered — ah, and sich things has hap- 
pened afore now. I ’ent sayin’ nothin’ agen your 
gal — the Lord pity her for gi’in her such a feyther! 
— but when it comes to John marryin’ o’ she , 
’t ’ent to be thought of. And you ought to be the 
last man as wished it. If there’s a man in ArdWrf- 
ton as you ought to stop Ruth a-marryin’ — even 
if ’tis for your own saake — ’tis my John.” 

Jim Thatcher shook his head sadly. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


163 


“ ’T ’ent no use my talkin’ to she” he said, a 
gleam of mischief in his eye. “She be an orkard- 
tempered gal — alius ’ ood have her own way. 
Sort o’ gal, if she was therted, as ’ud lead a chaap 

on all the moare, and then — and then ” he 

added, deliberately. 

“And then — what?” snapped the widow, with 
a gleam of hope for her son and a sneer at the 
character of Ruth Thatcher. “Throw ’un over, I 
suppose!” 

“No. Marry ’un!” exclaimed Jim Thatcher, 
lapsing into his broadest grin. 

Mrs. Martin looked daggers at him. 

“So,” he went on, enjoying her discomfiture, 
“if you doan’t want John to have Ruth doan’t 
thert she” 

“Sims to me she’ll get ’un whether she be 
therted or not.” 

“Sims likely she ’ool,” he assented cheerfully. 

She relapsed into silence for a minute. 

“I doan’t want John to have she, and I thought 
you ’oodn’t neither. That’s why I asked ’ee to 
come round and see ma.” 

“You’d best talk to ’un, then, and stop ’im.” 

All very well, but Mrs. Martin had a notion that 
John might prove as “orkard” as Ruth in the 
matter. 


164 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Do ’ee want ’un to have her?” 

“Me? I ’ent got nought to do wi’ it. Ruth’s 
old enough to know her own mind, and so be John, 
b’ent ’a? We folks can’t stop the young ’uns 
when ’t is a question o’ courtin’. Reckon your 
feyther didn’t put ’ee under lock and key to pre- 
vent ’ee a-walkin’ out wi’ your young man, did ’a, 
M~s. Martin?” 

At this allusion to her late husband of now 
sainted but erstwhile beery memory, the widow 
snorted in indignation. 

“Though mebbe arterward ’a wished your fey- 
ther had ha’ done it,” went on Jim Thatcher, ma- 
liciously, with a reference to sundry complaints 
which the late Mr. Martin was known to have 
made as to his wife’s tongue. 

She fell back on another line of argument. 

“S’posin’ John was to marry her, a pretty thing 
it ’ud be for he to ha’ to get his own feyther-in- 
law into trouble, if ’a seed ’ee a-snarin’ hares, or 
such like.” 

Jim Thatcher smiled amiably. 

“That’s jist the p’int,” he said. “’Ood ’a 
care to git ma into trouble arter ’a’d married 
Ruth? Sims to I ’a’d rather throw up this here 
gamekeepin’ job and taake to summat else.” 

At the mention of this possibility Mrs. Martin’s 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


165 


face grew pale. Such a contingency had never oc- 
curred to her. That John should not only marry 
Ruth Thatcher, but should also give up his good 
post for the sake of his domestic relationships was 
terrible to contemplate. 

“The Lord forbid!” she exclaimed, fervently. 

“Then you’d sleep quiet o’ nights, mebbe, and 
not get a worritin’ about me a-murderin’ on ’un ” 
went on Jim Thatcher, with a nasty return thrust. 

The widow caught at a straw. 

“Ah! but supposin’ ’a warn’t to gi’ up game 
keepin’, you ’oodn’t want to have he a-livin’ wi’ 
’ee, ’ood ’ee?” 

“What!” cried the other. “No — o’ course 
not. I ’oodn’t have ’un. If ’a marries my gal ’a 
must taake her to his own whoam, and that be 
here, b’ent it?” 

Mrs. Martin brought down her hand on the 
table. 

“ I ’oodn’t have your Ruth a-livin’ along o’ me, 
no — not if I was to git ma legs well agen acause 
of ’t and goo a-walkin’ up street saame as I used 
to ’t.” 

“Wal, then, you’d have to clear out o’ here, 
’oodn’t ’ee?” replied Jim Thatcher, rising to his 
feet, the thought of the tap-room and his half- 
finished afternoon beer coming into his head. 


166 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Me have to leave !” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. 
“Him what I brought up as a baby turn me out 
for a gal wi’ a ne’er-do-well feyther like you be! 
I won't be turned out. If they can’t put up wi’ I, 
they’ll have to bear wi’ you. There ’ent nary cot- 
tage in ^rilin’ton for ’em and ’ent likely to be. 
P’raps that ’ll bring John to his senses.” 

Jim Thatcher paused, his hand on the back of 
his chair. The spirit of mischief was strong upon 
him that afternoon. He stifled a chuckling little 
laugh and assumed deep gravity of expression. 

“’Tis a pity to stop youngfolks a-marryin’ and 
bein’ happy together,” he said. “They could ha’ 
my cottage and all that’s in it if I had a comfort- 
able plaace I could goo to. And there’s a waay 
out o’ that,” he went on, casting an eye around 
the cozy little room. “You ’ent so young as you 
used to be, Mrs. Martin, and no more ’ent I. But 
— for the saake o’ the young ’uns, I ’oodn’t mind 
askin’ on ’ee to marry ma.” 

Mrs. Martin sat bolt upright in her chair, her 
face a fiery red. 

“What!” she almost shrieked. 

He nodded amiably. 

“Then I could live wi’ ’ee here,” he explained, 
“and we could all on us be comfortable. ’Tis 
worth thinkin’ about, Mrs. Martin.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


167 


Then did the widow furiously rage and storm, 
concluding with the words: 

“ I ’ent never been so insulted in all ma life, 
that I ’ent. You goo out o’ my house, Jim 
Thatcher, and doan’t you never set foot inside it 
agen. If I’d ha’ knowed I was goin’ to ha’ been 
treated like this I ’oodn’t ha’ sent for ’ee, that I 
’oodn’t.” 

“I thought that was p’r’aps what ’ee had in 
your mind when you wrote me the letter,” replied 
Jim Thatcher, “and I might ha’ hurt your feelin’s 
by not a-seein’ what you meant.” 

“Get out o’ my house, I tell ’ee. I never 
heered tell o’ sich impudence. Me, a widder, 
what can’t help myself, afflicted as I be with ma 
legs, and one o’ them in the grave already, as you 
may say!” 

“That’s why I didn’t mind askin’ on ’ee,” 
quoth the imperturbable poacher. “Well, good 
arternoon, Mrs. Martin. Sorry we can’t agree, but 
I doan’t bear ’ee no ill-will — nor John neither. 
If I ’ent to be his step-father I ’oodn’t wonder if 
I was his father-in-law, one o’ these daays.” 

She gave him a look of indescribable scorn and 
contempt as he went out and closed the door after 
him. The next moment he opened it again and 
put his head inside. 


168 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Oh,” he said, with a leer, “I forgot summat. 
You can tell John what ’ a knows already, and that 
be that if ’a catches I wi’ ma pockets full there 
wunt be ara chanst for ’un wi’ my Ruth. She 
’ent a-goin’ to taake up wi’ ara man as gets her 
poor feyther into trouble!” 

“Reckon John’s love-makin’ ’ull shut his eyes 
for ’un,” he said to himself, with a chuckle, as he 
walked away. “She be a unked old ’ooman, that 
she be. But she didn’t get the better o’ I.” 

Halfway toward the “Wheatsheaf” he slowed 
down, stopped, tilted his cap from the back and 
scratched his head, and then, turning, retraced his 
steps to his own cottage. Ruth was just in the 
act of putting the kettle on the fire for her tea, 
and looked up in surprise as she saw him enter, 
knowing he had sallied forth to public that after- 
noon with a shilling in his pocket. 

“Get ma a cup o’ tea, will ’ee, Ruth?” he said, 
sitting down by the fire. 

She hastened to spread the table, made the tea, 
and sat down by him. He stirred his cup thought- 
fully. Suddenly he blurted out: 

“Be sweet on John Martin, then?” 

She turned toward him sharply. 

“Who’ve been a-sayin’ things to ’ee about me 
and John Martin, feyther?” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


1C9 


“Walkin’ out wi’ ’un, b’ent ’ee?” 

She sipped her tea, a little frown puckering her 
forehead. 

“I can have a walk wi’ ’un, saame as wi’ any 
other chaap if I chooses, can’t I?” 

“Be goin’ to marry ’un?” pursued her father, 
grimly categorical. 

“’A ’ent asked ma.” 

“Will ’a?” 

“Dunno. Oh, doan’t talk sich foolishness,” 
and she took a huge bite out of her bread and 
dripping. 

“What ’ool ’ee saay if ’a do?” 

“I ’ent a-goin’ to think about it,” she replied, 
with her mouth full, seizing the poker and giving 
the fire a vicious stir. “What’s John Martin to 
me? And I can’t abide ’un alius a-spyin’ on what 
you be a-doin’.” 

Jim Thatcher laughed. 

“Let ’un spy,” he said, “that’s his business — 
and mine too. But that ’ent no answer to what I 
asked ’ee. Be you fond o’ he?” 

“Here — have another cup o’ tea, do.” 

“So I ’ool. But I wants to know.” 

She jumped up, took the kettle off the fire and 
refilled the teapot. Bending her head down over 
the steam she made the great confession. 


170 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“I doan’t mind ’un.” 

To which she immediately added the deliber- 
ate lie: 

“ But I ’ent thought much about ’un.” 

“ Humph, ” grunted Jim Thatcher over a big 
mouthful, “John ’ent a baad sort. What ’ud 
’ee do if ’a catched I a-snarin’ hares and had ma 
took to Wellborough?” 

“Smack his head for ’un,” replied the 
girl, grateful for an opportunity of giving vent 
to any expression which would relieve her 
feelings. 

“I means afore you was married to ’un,” went 
on her father. 

“Chuck ’un!” she returned promptly. 

Jim Thatcher thought for a minute or two, and 
then ejaculated: 

“All right then, my gal. I maun’t let ’un 
catch ma, that’s all.” 

“I hopes you zvunt” she replied emphatically. 

No further words were spoken on the subject. 
Presently he drained his second cup of tea, got 
up, put on his hat, nodded casually to Ruth, and 
remarking: 

“Dunno what time I shall be back. Leave th’ 
door on th’ latch, will ’ee?” went out into the 
darkness of a winter’s evening. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


171 


“She be serious, I reckon,” he said to himself. 
“Be John Martin to gi’ up gaamekeepin’ or be 
I to gi’ up hare-snarin’, I wonder? No” he went 
on decidedly, “I couldn’t do that! I must be a 
bit more careful, mebbe — I owes it to Ruth.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


Gertrude Wrenfield was writing a letter to her 
father, writing it, too, in his study, where she had 
ordered a fire to be lighted to air the room and 
the books. It was a chatty letter, full of the little 
doings of Adlington, for she knew how much her 
father would love being posted up in every detail 
of news. She was telling him about Ross. 

“He seems to be gettin on very well, and I 
think, on the whole, the people like him. Of course 
they miss seeing you in their cottages, and often 
ask after ‘the dear Vicar/ but he seems to visit 
them fairly regularly. He preaches quite simple 
sermons — a little unconventional, perhaps, for 
he does not write them, and is too partial to col- 
loquialisms — but the congregation certainly lis- 
tens. He has started a few new things in the 
parish, concerning which I feel a bit dubious, 
though I don’t think they can do any harm. For 
instance, he has a class of boys on Sunday after- 
noons in his rooms — not my boys, of course, but 
some of the ‘undesirables’ — you know! I really 
felt I ought to ask Mrs. Lovegrove if she minded; 

172 . 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


173 


but the dear old woman had no objection to offer, 
so I thought it best to let him have his own 
way.” 

Here she paused and reread the last sentence. 
A little frown wrinkled on her brow. 

“I wonder whether that’s quite true,” she 
mused; “I mean — he seemed determined to have 
his own way whether I approved or not.” 

She dipped her pen into the ink with a sudden 
movement and scratched through all that came 
after the word “offer.” 

“After all,” she said, “he does manage those 
boys well.” 

Then she resumed the letter. 

“He has also had some services for men on 
week nights. I don’t fancy many go to them, 
however. When he proposed doing this I nat- 
urally offered to play the organ for him, but he 
said he wanted men only , and could manage a few 
hymn tunes himself. Amos Weedon went to one 
of these services, so I asked him how he liked it. 
You know how fond he is of you? Well, he an- 
swered, c I doan’t mind ’un, but t’ent like the Vicar; 
he alius maakes I feel ’s if I were a settin’ up in 
heaven on a cloud, a-waitin’ for ’em to bring ma a 
harp. This ’un talks ’bout or’nary things what 
we does in the world. It ’ent, somehow, like re- 


174 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


ligion ! ’ Still, I hear from others that they appre- 
ciate what he is trying to do for them. 

“We had a little concert on Wednesday. Mr. 
Ross sang two songs — not at all badly.” 

Again she paused. She was just about to say 
something about the chorus of these songs which 
had been sung by every one with uplifted voice. 

“N — no,” she ejaculated, “it might worry 
father. He wouldn’t understand, and — and — 
they did like it.” 

So she went on. 

“Mr. Ilbury sang. So did his niece — the song 
she always gives us, with the high note which she 
never manages to reach. Mr. Gringer gave a 
reading — mispronouncing the long words, as you 
know he would, and Tom Gringer dressed himself 
up and sang comic songs — a shade vulgar I I 
looked them over beforehand, of course, but he 
put in some extra verses which I think he had pur- 
posely kept back from me. 

“Miss Bruce also sang. She has a good voice, 
but it wants more training. She is, of course, 
quite a child. Mr. Ross appears to admire her. 
I don’t quite know ” 

She broke off again, laid down her pen, and 
leaned back in her chair. 

“Well,” she said, after a pause, “it’s perfectly 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


175 


true. One can see that he admires her. He 
almost goes out of his way to show it. 
The way he raised an encore for her was con- 
spicuous — I — I wonder if her step-father no- 
ticed it?” 

She took up her pen again. 

“I don’t quite know why. He is so much older 
than she. By the way, Mr. Philips is an acquisi- 
tion in the parish. He is most regular in church, 
and takes an interest in parochial affairs. I think 
he will be a companion for dear old Harry, who is 
coming down to-morrow to spend Christmas. Oh, 
father dear, we shall miss you both so much. It 
won’t seem a bit like Christmas ! 

“You will be surprised to know that I heard the 
other day that John Martin was seen walking out 
with Ruth Thatcher. I felt very sorry, because 
we always liked John, and he is one of my old 
boys. I know nothing against the girl, but her 
father is, I fear, as disreputable as ever, and she 
has always refused to belong to the G. F. S. I 
went to see dear old Mrs. Martin about it. She 
was much upset, and implored me to speak to 
John. So I kept him back after choir practice; 
but I am sorry to say I did not seem to make any 
impression upon him — in fact, he was almost 
rude about it. It would be such a pity, wouldn’t 


176 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


it? I have half a mind to ask Mr. Ross to see 
what he can do, only ” 

The servant tapped at the door and came in. 

“Mr. Philips wishes to speak to you for minute, 
miss.” 

“Where is he?” 

“In the drawing room, miss.” 

“Oh, show him in here, will you, Ellen?” Philips 
came in. 

“You must excuse my calling in the morning,” 
he said, “but there were one or two things I 
wanted to see you about. . . . Ah,” he went 

on, looking at her writing materials, “you’re 
busy. I’m interrupting you.” 

“Oh, no; I was only writing to my father. Do 
sit down, Mr. Philips.” 

“First of all,” he said, taking a note from his 
pocket, “this is from Mildred. She wants you to 
come and dine with us quietly to-morrow evening, 
I think. So I told her I’d take back your answer.” 

“It’s very kind of her. But my brother is 
coming down to-morrow. I had a post card from 
him this morning.” 

A fact which Philips knew well. It had been 
the cause of his telling Mildred to write that 
note. Luke Mills, the postman, was perfectly 
open about the reading of every post card he de- 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


177 


livered. He considered them public property, 
and never hesitated to say so. Philips had been 
in the garden when he arrived with the letters that 
morning, and Luke had detailed the news — as 
was customary with him. 

“Farmer Gringer’s mare died last evenin’ at 
the vet’rinary’s plaace at Wellborough. Marster 
Harry Wrenfield be a-comin’ for Chris’mas to- 
morrow. I’ve a poast card from ’un for the Vicar- 
age.” 

He answered Miss Wrenfield thus: 

“Oh, why not bring him with you? We should 
be delighted.” 

“Thanks very much. I will, then.” 

“So that’s settled. Now I want you to let me 
give you a small contribution for your Christmas 
treats — and I should like some of the old people 
to have a bit of beef or something out of it. Only 
don’t say it was from me. This is strictly parochial, 
Miss Wrenfield.” 

Out of his purse he took five sovereigns and laid 
them down on the table. 

“I’m sure it’s exceedingly kind of you ” 

He waved his hand deprecatingly. 

“Not another word — please. It’s a pleasure. 
Now, I won’t disturb you any longer,” and he 
rose from his seat; “you won’t be quite so dull now 


178 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


your brother is coming. Does he stay long?” he 
went on casually. 

“His holidays are always rather uncertain. If 
they are very busy at the Foreign Office he may 
only get a few days — but I hope he will be here 
for a fortnight. Lord Brook is sure to give him 
as much time as he can.” 

Philips twisted his moustache, made a few re- 
marks about the weather, shook hands with her, 
and went out. As he walked down the Vicarage 
drive he still had one hand raised to his mouth, 
twirling that moustache of his. 

“ A few days — or a fortnight,” he said to him- 
self, “ that’s a little uncertain. Luckily I know 
all about my man — Joyce soon found that out — 
and Pm prepared to handle him. Glad I lost no 
time, though. It’ll have to be a careful game; 
but if he’s hard up and a bit desperate he ought 
to take the bait fairly easily. Especially as he 
seems a young fool, by all accounts. 

“Ah,” he went on, “here comes the only man in 
Adlington who really knows anything of the great 
world, the only man at all likely to be danger- 
ous. I always feel .he doesn’t like me — I 
don’t know why, but I do. And yet he’s 
partial to Mildred ... I wonder . . . 

oh, nonsense, he’s too old a man for that. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


179 


If I thought so I wouldn’t hesitate to stop it, 
but it can’t be.” 

Ross came walking briskly down the road, clad 
in his usual knickerbocker suit, his pipe in full 
blast. The other man stopped him. 

“ Ah, good morning, Ross. Nice, fresh winter’s 
day, isn’t it?” 

“ Stunning. I was just going for a bit of a walk 
to get an appetite for lunch.” 

“Capital idea. I’d like one myself. Do you 
mind if I come with you ? ” 

“By all means.” 

They passed along the village street and struck 
for the open Downs. At first, Ross was rather 
terse and silent. There were reasons why he 
disliked being alone with Philips, and among them 
was the constraint he felt in acting the spy. All 
his life Howard Ross had been accustomed to plain 
dealings with men, preferring to challenge them 
to their faces if he had aught against them, and 
in the past there had been men who had come 
away from an interview with him with a doubtful 
shade around the eye, and sundry teeth missing. 
For Ross had never hesitated to thrash his man if 
he thought justice demanded it. That was in 
Australia, of course, in his earlier days, when he 
had found fists were more useful than his tongue. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


And those were men who had used fists too. 
But he felt that Philips was an individual who de- 
pended, both for attack and defence, on more sub- 
tle weapons than a couple of clenched hands, who 
would, therefore, have to be met with the same. He 
was not accustomed to his part, and he felt uneasy. 

“I hear young Wrenfield’s coming down to- 
morrow, ” said Philips, presently; “you don’t 
know him, I suppose?” 

“No; he hasn’t been here since I came.” 

“I hope to get a bit of shooting with him.” 

“You’ve never met him before, of course?” 

He shot the question somewhat abruptly. 
Philips took a quick glance at him. 

“Oh, no,” he said. “You didn’t think I had, 
did you?” he added. 

“No.” 

They walked on for a few moments in silence. 
Philips broke it. 

“By the way,” he said, “I’ve been wanting to 
ask you several times : are you connected with the 
Ross family who belong to Shropshire?” 

Ross quickened his pace slightly and looked 
straight ahead of him as he replied, after a short 
pause: 

“They are possibly distant relations. Oh, I 
fancy they must be. I’ve heard of them.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


181 


“My wife spoke of them once, and that brought 
it to my mind. I seem to recollect she spoke of 
them as having been connected in some way with 
her first husband. But I couldn’t be sure. She 
was in a semi-conscious state — rambling — at 
the time. It was just before she died.” 

There was a bunch of dead thistles growing be- 
side the path. Ross slashed at them viciously 
with his stick as he passed them. 

“Let me see,” he said; “oh, yes, of course. She 
was Mrs. Bruce when you married her. Your 
step-daughter’s name is Bruce, isn’t it? Yes. 
There is no one of that name connected with my 
family.” 

“Ah, I dare say I was mistaken.” 

“ I think you told me,” said Ross, presently, 
“Mrs. Bruce Philips. . . died . . . when 

your step-daughter was quite young?” 

“Yes. When she was seven years old.” 

Ross stopped abruptly to light his pipe, shad- 
ing the match against the wind with his hands. 
Philips waited. Suddenly a shrill cry — almost 
a shriek — came from a little clump of furze 
bushes on the hillside below them, a strange, dis- 
turbing cry. 

“Ant! ant! ant!” 

“What’s that?” exclaimed Philips. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


The parson’s set face relaxed with a smile. 

“A poacher’s been at work, evidently,” he said. 

“That’s not a man, surely?” 

“No. It’s a hare — caught by the leg instead 
of the neck as was intended. They always cry 
like that. Let’s go down.” 

“Stop a minute,” said Philips; “we might catch 
a glimpse of the poacher himself.” 

“Not we!” cried Ross with a laugh. “Jim 

That I mean, whoever laid that snare 

wouldn’t dare go near it now. Any gamekeeper 
within a mile knows perfectly well what’s up. 
Come on!” 

He led the way, almost boyishly, bounding down 
the hill, with Philips after him. At length they 
reached the furze clump. Behind one of the bushes 
was a fine hare, struggling in an agony of terror, 
her hind legs in a running wire noose pegged 
down to the ground. Ross went down on his 
knees and took her by the ears. 

“What are you going to do with it?” asked 
Philips. 

“Let her go, of course. Gently there! Here 
we are . That’s better, ah — good strong wire 
this, if it is thin. Now then — off you go!” 

The hare bounded away, doubled, paused a 
moment as if to make sure that she was really 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


183 


free, and then disappeared behind a bush. Ross 
slowly rose from his knees, the cunning-looking 
snare in his hand. He showed it to Philips. 

“ If she’d put her neck into it — as the beggar 
intended she should do — she’d have given one 
mad plunge and broke it. But she only caught 
her legs in it — so his game didn’t come off.” 

“And now, thanks to you, she’s free.” 

“She’s free — and I expect she’s jolly glad.” 

There was rustling in the bushes behind them. 
They turned. John Martin, gun under arm, 
stood there, sprung from somewhere or other. 

“Good marnin’, Mr. Ross. Good marnin’, 
sir. You heered ’un too, then?” 

“Aye,” replied Ross, “we heard right enough; 
here, you’d better take this.” 

And he tossed him the snare. 

John Martin looked at it with a frown. 

“How ’a put ’un down here, I dunno,” he said. 
“’Twarn’t here last evenin’, ’cause I come this 
way myself. And I’ve been out ever since afore 
daaybreak. But I’ll have ’un yet, I W/” 

Ross laughed. 

“The course of true love won’t run quite 
smooth, if you do catch him, will it, John?” he 
asked. 

John Martin pushed his cap back and scratched 


184 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


his head as the two men made off up the hill 
again. 

“Josiah Lovegrove said as how ’a were a’most 
as shaarp as ara Ard\m\on man,” he ejaculated, 
“and so ’ a be! Shouldn’t wonder if ’a knows 
moare nor ’a says, neither. ’A be wonnerful 
friendly wi’ old Thatcher. But Vs right. If I 
ketches Jim Thatcher, what’ll Ruth saay to I? 
And if I doan’t ketch ’un what’ll the maaster saay? 
It be wonnerful orkard, seein’ as I wants Ruth to 
marry I!” 

Philips was just in front of Ross as they were 
climbing the hill. He stopped short and turned 
round. 

“I say,” he ejaculated, “where the dickens did 
that fellow spring from? I never saw him. I 
could have sworn there was no one in sight when 
we were standing on the top just now.” 

“He saw us, I expect,” replied Ross. “Keepers 
and poachers have a knack of looking on and hid- 
ing themselves at the same time.” 

“Are they about all over these Downs?” 

Ross noticed that his companion was twisting 
his moustache. 

“Mostly on this side, I fancy,” he said. “There’s 
more cover here.” 

“I see,” answered Philips, as he recommenced 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


185 


the ascent. Ross looked at the back of his head, 
a queer expression on his face. 

“ You’re thinking of that cottage/’ he said to 
himself. “I wonder if you’re a sort of poacher, and 
whether if you only catch young Wrenfield by the 
leg it’ll fall to my lot to set him free. Anyhow, 
I’ll have a jolly good try at it!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


Harry Wrenfield strolled into the breakfast 
room as the clock on the mantelpiece marked the 
hour of ten. It was an understood part of the 
family menage that when Harry was at home he 
might take liberties as regarded the first meal of 
the day, and he was rarely down before this time, 
except when he had to catch what he facetiously 
called the “cock crow” train for town, leaving 
Wellborough at 10.45, which necessitated a half- 
past nine breakfast at the latest. 

His sister, who generally used the breakfast 
room all the morning, rose from the table at which 
she had been writing, rang the bell for fresh coffee, 
and set a dish, which had been keeping warm be- 
fore the fire, on the table. Her brother accepted 
these little attentions as a matter of custom. 

He stood for a minute or two, hands in pockets, 
back to fire, yawning lazily. He was a handsome 
young man, with fair moustache and curly hair, 
but in the matter of chin he took after his mother 
rather than his father and sister. For his chin 
obviously receded, and was round. 

186 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


187 


4< Hullo, Gertie,” he exclaimed, as she sat down 
again, “ still at the same old game. What is 
it? Choir notices? Parish magazine? Sunday- 
school classes? What a round of mad gayety 
you live in!” 

“Well, some one must do it, Harry,” she re- 
plied with a laugh. 

“All right. Go ahead, old girl. And, look 
here, if you want me to go to church to-morrow, 
cut those choir notices short. My favourite 
hymns are those with two verses of four lines 
each.” 

He sat down at the table, helped himself to 
food, and began his breakfast. 

“Have you got everything you want?” 

“Yes, thanks. I say, Gertie, how’s the guv’- 
nor? Have you heard from him lately? I 
ought to have written, I know, but I haven’t.” 

“I heard from them both this week. Father 
seems ever so much better, but he hasn’t lost his 
cough yet. Weren’t you surprised to hear of 
them both going abroad?” 

“Yes, I was,” he replied, pouring himself out a 
cup of tea. “I was awfully sorry to hear he was so 
ill, too. How they must miss him here!” 

Gertrude Wrenfield leaned her head on her 
hand and gazed thoughtfully out of the window. 


188 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


With all her calm exterior, she was missing the old 
people more than she cared to say. And, just 
then, the thought that some day there would be 
no return — the journey would have to be made 
to a more distant land — flashed across her. She 
gave a little sigh. Harry shot a glance at her and 
perhaps understood. 

“He’ll come back as fit as a fiddle,” he said. 
“He’s got a rare constitution, and he’s good for a 
big slice of work yet — and the missus’ too. 
Shove that marmalade across the table, Gertie.” 

“Lazy pig!” she ejaculated, with a smile, as she 
got up and did so; their eyes met, and he nodded 
at her cheerfully. 

“Keep up your pecker, old girl!” 

Instead of returning to her work, she sat down, 
facing him, both elbows on the breakfast table, 
her chin in her hands. 

“How have you been getting on lately, Harry?” 
she asked; “when you do write you never give us 
any news.” 

He dabbed the spoon into the marmalade, took 
a helping, and replied: 

“Oh, all right. I’m kept pretty busy, you 
know. There’s a confounded lot to do.” 

“It must be interesting work?” 

He struck a theatrical attitude, grasping a 


LEFT IN CHARGE 189 

piece of toast in one hand and the bread knife in 
the other. 

“But that I am forbid to tell the secrets of my 
prison house, 

“I could a tale unfold !” 

he quoted, melodramatically, bit off a piece of 
the toast, and added: 

“Many tales for the matter of that. Dire con- 
spiracies, secret treaties, warlike machinations. 
I’ll tell you one , Gertie, just to satisfy your fem- 
inine curiosity. It’s an absolute fact,” he went 
on in a hollow, sepulchral voice, “a deep secret of 
this mighty empire on which the sun never sets, 
that, from next year onward, all our ambas- 
sadors are to have the gold stripe down their dress 
trousers an eighth of an inch wider than at pres- 
ent!” 

“Don’t be absurd! I don’t suppose you know 
so much as you want me to think you do — of 
anything really important.” 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said evasively; “there’s 
a lot to be picked up. You can’t write letters and 
copy documents, which seem by themselves to 
mean very little, without gathering hints at times.” 

“And — how are you getting on in other mat- 


190 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


ters? I mean, you know, your more private 
affairs.” 

She was looking at him steadily. He shifted 
his gaze from her, pushed his plate aside, filled 
his pipe, and lit it. A moody look stole over 
his handsome face. 

“ I wish the guv’nor was at home,” he said. “ I 
don’t like bothering him with letters, and it’s so 
much easier to have it out with him face to face.” 

“ What do you want to have out with him?” 

He fidgeted in his chair a little. 

“Well, you see, he don’t allow me very much 
now, and, you know, it’s a deucedly expensive 
berth — - the pay isn’t enough. A fellow must live 
up to his position, and there are no end of ex- 
penses. Oh, well, the truth of the matter is, I’m 
devilish hard up. Unfortunately, that’s not the 
worst of it.” 

“You’ve been getting into debt, I suppose?” 
she asked quietly. 

He nodded. 

“Again? Oh, Harry how could you?” 

“You don’t know anything about it,” he replied 
sharply. “Anyway, I’m in a tight fix — you 
wouldn’t understand.” 

“Won’t you tell me?” 

Instead of answering her question, he said: 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


191 


“I must write to the guv’nor, I suppose. It’s 
the only way.” 

Gertrude Wrenfield rose from her chair, crossed 
over to the fireplace, and stood there, her hand 
on the mantelpiece, looking down into the grate. 

“ Harry,” she said, in a low voice, “it isn’t fair. 
I don’t think you know how poor father really is. 
This living is worth very little, and he has had to 
sell out some of his small capital to help you al- 
ready. And now we are put to an additional ex- 
pense because he has to winter abroad, and pay 
for a substitute while he is away. This was one 
of the reasons why I found it difficult to make him 
take the doctor’s advice. He is so good — and 
the parish itself is a constant drain upon him.” 

“Oh, damn the parish!” cried Harry Wrenfield 
angrily. “I’ve always had that dinned into my 
ears whenever I’ve wanted a few paltry pounds. 
A lot of whining, hypocritical old women begging 
for coals and blankets, measly kids wanting treats 
and prizes, money thrown away on restoring the 
church tower instead of giving it to his own flesh 
and blood. The guv’nor and the mater and you are 
always flaunting this precious parish in my face, 
and I tell you I’ve had enough of it!” 

Gertrude bit her lip, but answered calmly 
enough: 


192 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“I don’t think you would get father to see 
things in that light. We have a duty to the 
parish.” 

He turned in his chair and faced her. He had 
fairly lost his temper. 

“You only see things from a woman’s point 
of view,” he retorted; “and a wretchedly selfish 
point of view it is, too.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Oh, life is made so easy for women. What 
do they do? They don’t have to work. They 
fuss around the parish and their parents, and 
think they’ve done a lot. We men have to go out 
and earn our living. There’s no idle comfort for 
us!” 

Gertrude Wrenfield turned round, her lips 
quivering, her face flushed with anger. And she 
said things she never meant to say; things, per- 
haps, that she had never voiced before. 

“Do you think I live here by choice?” she ex- 
claimed. “Do you imagine that there’s no sac- 
rifice in it? Do you think that when I meet 
women who move about in the world, or who are 
independent, that I never feel the constraint and 
the littleness of it all, or — or that I’ve never 
longed for a home that is really my own? It’s 
just because I’ve seen them growing older and 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


193 


feebler these ten years back that I’ve stayed and 
stifled my feelings in one eternal monotonous 
round. I know very well what it’s made me, if 
you don’t. I know the narrowness of the life — 
the pettiness of the outlook. It sapped away my 
girlhood, it’s doing the same with my womanhood. 
I don’t think about it. I couldn’t bear it if I did 
think. And then — and then you come here and 
taunt me with being selfish!” 

Harry Wrenfield took his pipe out of his mouth 
and stared at his sister in mute surprise. He had 
never seen her like this. Her eyes flashed, her 
face turned deathly pale. 

“ Yes — you taunt me with selfishness. Just as 
others, I suppose, despise me because my only 
world is this tiny village on the Downs, because 
my life is a drab, parochial life, and laugh at me 
because I’m the typical daughter of a country 
parson, and think I’m narrow and prejudiced — 
and I can’t help it — I can’t help it.” 

“ Who despise and laugh at you?” he asked in 
astonishment. 

Instead of answering him she laid her arms on 
the mantelpiece, rested her head on them, and 
gave a choking sob. He sprang to his feet and 
put his hand on her shoulder. 

“Gertie, old girl, I’m sorry. I ” 


194 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


She turned suddenly, dashing her hand across 
her eyes. 

“ Don’t!’’ she ejaculated, catching her breath, 
“ don’t” — as he began to say once more that he 
was sorry — “ can’t you see I don’t want you to 
say anything more? I didn’t mean what I said 
— you made me lose my temper — please sit 
down.” 

He sat down again and waited for her to speak. 
It was a few moments before she sufficiently con- 
trolled herself. 

“Now, let us talk out matters seriously, Harry. 
Is it very bad?” 

He lit his pipe once more. 

“Well, yes — I think I may say that it is. To 
be quite frank, I’ve had to borrow money. My 
position has been my chief security, and I fear 
that I have arrived at that particular climax when 
that security will be attacked.” 

“I don’t quite understand.” 

“It’s extremely simple — quite too unpleas- 
antly simple. If I cannot pay back the principal, 
with a certain amount of interest, they will bring 
my affairs to the notice of Lord Brook.” 

“But I don’t see what they can gain by doing 
that.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


195 


“That is their affair. It may possibly be that 
the Foreign Office hates scandals, and might set- 
tle. I don’t know. Anyhow, my services would 
be no longer required by Lord Brook.” 

“Who lent you the money? Ordinary money- 
lenders?” 

“No. There is a little problem which I cannot 
solve. They were, more or less, friends. Do you 
know what an IOU is?” 

“I think I do.” 

“Well, anyhow, it’s like this. I gave them 
written promises to pay, and now I find they’ve 
sold those promises.” 

“Sold them?” 

“You see, there are men who are ready to buy 
up these things as a speculation. And a certain 
chap, calling himself Joyce, who has an office 
somewhere in the city and poses as a general agent 
or something of the kind, seems to have conceived 
a sudden passion for collecting bits of paper with 
my signature. He holds nearly all, and he’s 
pressing me in a most unpleasant way. I confess 
I’m puzzled.” 

“Why should he want to buy up all these 
things?” 

“That’s the point, Gertie.” 

“Have you asked your — your friends why they 


196 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


sold them? I shouldn’t have thought any man 
calling himself a gentleman would have done such 
a thing.” 

“They don’t call themselves gentlemen,” he 
replied dryly. “I said they were more or less my 
friends, you know. They are, perhaps, a cut 
above the ordinary money-lender, and were con- 
tent to wait their chances. Oh, yes, I’ve asked 
them, and they’ve replied by simply showing me this 
man Joyce’s letters, in which he said he was wil- 
ling to buy up any of my bills. And they naturally 
sold them. It was only business that they should.” 

“But how did he know they had these bills?” 

Again he shrugged his shoulders. 

“That’s just what I can’t say.” 

“Have you seen this man Joyce?” 

“Yes. But I can’t get anything out of him. 
He’s an Irishman, full of blarney — but for all 
that he’s determined to have his money or show 
me up, and pretty soon, too.” 

“How much do you owe?” 

“That’s the silly part of it, my dear girl. 
There are other debts, but they can wait. This 
particular man is pressing me for only about three 
hundred and fifty pounds. I could easily pay 
him out of my salary in six months or so, but he 
won’t wait.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


197 


Gertrude Wrenfield raised her eyebrows. 

“But it’s a large sum,” she said, “and I know 
father couldn’t possibly manage it. Wouldn’t it 
be possible to borrow the money from these people 
who lent it to you before, and pay this man off?” 

“No,” he said; “I’ve tried. They won’t. 
Once having sold the bills they don’t think it’s 
good enough to take on the risk again. I thought 
I was going to get out of the wood the other day. 
I had a pretty certain tip, but it didn’t come off.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Another gee-gee romped in first,” he answered. 

“So you only lost more?” 

“I owe more.” 

She drummed her fingers on the table and 
thought for a moment. 

“I know father can’t do much,” she said pres- 
ently; “if we could think of something else. 
Would this man Joyce be content with part of the 
money now, do you think?” 

“He might be.” 

“Well, I’ll see what I can do. I have a little 
money in the bank. You can have it if it will 
be any use.” 

“It is good of you. But I hate taking it, you 
know.” 

“ I should like you to. I’ll see about it by and 


198 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


by. But I must go over to the church now — 
about the decorations. What are you going to do 
this morning ?” 

“That chap we dined with last evening — 
Philips — is coming round presently with his 
gun. Don’t wait lunch.” 

“He’s very nice, isn’t he, Harry?” 

“He has a knack of making money, from what 
he was telling me last night, after you had gone 
into the drawing room. I wish / had,” he added 
ruefully. “By the way — I’ve hardly had time 
to speak to you yet — what sort of a fellow is this 
parson the guv’nor has put in. Decent?” 

“Oh, I think you will like him. He has trav- 
elled, and is interesting. Not at all like the usual 
type of clergyman — a little too unconventional, 
perhaps.” 

“Do you get on with him all right, and make 
him do what he’s told — as you do the guv’nor?” 

She had risen from her seat once more, prepar- 
ing to go. In doing so, she stood for a moment 
before the mirror on the mantelpiece. 

“Well, you see,” she admitted, “he rather goes 
his own way — he’s — he’s not quite the sort of 
man one can order about.” 

“Oh, you’ve been trying?” he asked quizzically. 
But she did not answer. She was looking in the 


LEFT IN CHARGE 199 

glass, brushing back from her forehead some strag- 
gling hairs. 

“ Harry,” she said suddenly, “it’s positively 
dreadful. I’m getting gray!” 

“You’re getting idiotic, you mean. Don’t talk 
nonsense.” 

“I am , Harry. I can count several gray hairs.” 

“How many?” 

“Well,” she admitted slowly, leaning forward 
so as to bring her face closer to the glass, “two, 
at all events — no — three, really!” 

“Turn round and let me have a look at you.” 

She did. He leaned back in his chair and eyed 
her complacently. 

“You’re not half bad looking, you know, Ger- 
tie. I mean it. You don’t look more than five 
or six and twenty, and as to gray hairs — stuff 
and nonsense! Don’t get introspective and moody. 
If you were to do your hair a bit more fashion- 
ably you would be quite handsome.” 

Her eyes brightened and a flush of pleasure 
mounted to her cheeks. 

“I’m afraid you’re only trying to get a rise out 
of me.” 

“Upon my honour I am not.” 

“Nobody has ever said those sort of things to 
me, you know.” 


200 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Poor old Gertie! But there’s no one here to 
say them. You are perfectly right, though I’m 
more than sorry I made you say so; this is a 
wretched, narrow, cramping place, and you are too 
good for it. Why, a woman with your complex- 
ion and figure would take the shine out of a score 
of girls I know in town who think they are beau- 
ties. It’s a shame that you should be thrown 
away here.” 

A self-conscious smile played around her 
mouth. 

“But I’m thirty-two, Harry,” she said depre- 
catingly. “Now,” she went on slowly, “if you 
were to say that of Mildred Bruce, she ” 

“That girl I met last night? Oh, my dear Ger- 
tie, she is only just out of school, and shows it, too. 
Quite uninteresting. She bored me intensely, 
I assure you. When she is four or five years older, 
one might have some opinion of her, but at pres- 
ent !” and he shrugged his shoulders with 

the air of a man of the world. 

“ I must get ready now. Thank you for saying 
such nice things — even if they are not true. It 
is good to be cheered up sometimes, and every 
woman has a spark of vanity, you know — daugh- 
ters of country parsons included. We like to 
think that there are people who appreciate us for 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


201 


something else than playing organs or teaching in 
the Sunday-schools.” 

She went out. 

The young man lolled back in his chair, smok- 
ing, half smiling to himself. 

“Funny creatures, women!” he murmured. 
“I had no idea Gertie was so susceptible to a little 
praise of that kind — and only from a brother. 
Poor old girl! IPs a drab kind of existence — 
and she is such a good sort when she gets out of her 
stiffness.” 

He was still smoking when she opened the door 
and came just inside. 

“Oh, Harry, on your way back, call at Maisey’s 
shop and bring me two balls of string; there’s a 
dear.” 

“I will. Hullo! Why, you’ve changed your 
dress and smartened yourself up. I thought you 
were going to decorate?” 

“ So I am. But it is cold in the church, and my 
other dress is so thin.” 

“Aha,” said Harry to himself, as she closed the 
door, “my little bit of flattery has done her good 
already.” 

When she entered the church, the first thing she 
saw was Mildred Bruce decorating the font. 
On his knees beside her was Ross, picking choice 


202 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


sprays of holly from a bundle of evergreens on the 
floor, a happy smile on his face. 

Perhaps it was the sacredness of the edifice 
that made Gertrude Wrenfield bow a little coldly 
as she said, “Good morning” in almost a whisper. 
With her basket full of white flowers on her arm 
she walked up the aisle toward the altar — to ar- 
range the vases in her old stiff manner — her 
eyes fixed before her on the coloured window at 
the east end of the chancel. 

So she never saw Ross pause in handing a 
sprig of holly to his companion, and, still on his 
knees, look after her with a slightly puzzled ex- 
pression. 

“Please, Mr. Ross!” 

He looked up. Mildred was holding out her 
hand. He gave her the holly. 

“How awfully well Miss Wrenfield looks this 
morning,” he said. 

Mildred gave just a glance up the aisle at the 
retreating figure. 

“Yes, I like her in that hat,” she said casually. 

“I didn’t mean her hat,” replied Ross — and 
suddenly relapsed into silence. 


CHAPTER XV 


Christmas Day passed quietly enough at Adling- 
ton, as it always did. The ringers woke the vil- 
lage that morning while it was still dark, and Jim 
Thatcher, ever shrewd and observant, gathered 
that John Martin was ringing the tenor by reason 
of the latter always striking a little late at “back 
stroke,” a habit of John’s. Whereupon he rose 
from his bed, dressed quickly, went out, and re- 
turned a couple of hours later with full pockets. 

“This ’un ’ull do for our Chris’mas supper, ma 
gal,” he said, as he laid a small hare on the table; 
“stew ’un well, will ’ee? ’A ought to hang a few 
daays, by rights, but no matter. T’other ’un — 
ah — I knows what I’ll do with t’other ’un.” 

“T’other ’un” was hung, and subsequently 
formed a New Year’s dinner for the family of Mr. 
Maisey, the little man who kept the village em- 
porium. But it would not have been wise to in- 
quire into these mysteries. 

Sundry nonconformists came to church at the 
morning service. The custom was an ancient one, 
there being no service at the little chapel on that 
203 


204 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


day. Knots of villagers lingered in the church-* 
yard afterward, exchanging greetings, asking Miss 
Wrenfield as she came out after the Vicar’s health. 
Harry Wrenfield had a nod and a word for many. 
He walked as far as Hill Croft with Philips — 
who asked him to come in and smoke, the follow- 
ing evening. 

The Reverend Howard Ross returned to his 
lodgings, where he had a Christmas party — two 
parties, in point of fact. There was a turkey for 
the midday meal, and the guests were his landlord 
and landlady, Josiah and Sally Lovegrove, the 
latter dressed in her best and only black silk skirt, 
while her husband wore an ancient flowered waist- 
coat that had been given to his grandfather by a 
former Gringer, a garment carefully preserved in 
tissue paper at the bottom of a drawer. There 
was wine on the table, and the old man insisted 
on standing up and proposing a toast. 

“Well, sir, we thanks ’ee kindly, Sally and I 
does, and we wishes ’ee good health. And we 
wunt forget them as we misses, the Vicar, God 
bless ’un, and his good lady.” 

“Ah, and Miss Gertrude,” put in Sally with a 
sniff of applause at her performance in the solemn 
rite. 

“We doan’t miss she, ’cause she be still wi’ us,” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


205 


said her husband; “but if she were to goo, ’twood 
be a bad daay for ArdWidton. I dunno how things 
’ud go on wi’out Miss Gertrude. You be right, 
Sally, we’ll drink her health wi’ the t’others, if 
you please, sir.” 

Ross smiled a little. He noticed how the an- 
cient cords were strongest. The old shepherd 
had begun by proposing his health. But all 
thought of the present host had gone out of his 
head as soon as he had called to mind the ones he 
knew better. Ross stood up and raised his glass. 

“The Vicar — Mrs. Wrenfield — and Miss 
Wrenfield,” he said, “all of them. By all means.” 

Sally Lovegrove raked together and applied 
sundry virtues. 

“She be a good-lookin’ young lady,” she re- 
marked, “a bit masterful, at toimes, but she’ve 
got a kind heart at the bottom on’t. What Jo- 
siah says be true, sir. If she was to goo awaay 
from ^rJlin’ton, folks ’ud be sorry. They ’oo^/” 

Ross sat down, poured himself out another glass 
of wine, was silent for a moment or two, and then 
said, half to himself: 

“It’s a dull life — all these years of it.” 

“What! Ard\m\on dull , sir?” broke in the old 
man. “N’ara bit of it. I sometimes says there 
be more a-goin’ on at ArdWrdtovi than at ara vil- 


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lage about here. What wi’ shootin’ parties, and 
concerts, and a carrier twice a week to Well- 
borough, and Club Feast at Whitsuntide, and the 
football games as you’ve started, sir — why, life’s 
ten toimes more lively than ’t was when I were a 
boy. Mebbe, though, you was a thinkin’ of 
Australee when you spoke, sir.” 

Ross laughed. 

“Maybe I was,” he replied. 

Sally, not quite satisfied with his answer, added 
a further claim to the anti-dullness of Adlington. 

“Why, we had a murder fifteen year ago,” she 
exclaimed triumphantly; “’t warn’t dull then , I 
can tell ’ee, sir. Folks come from miles round to 
see where ’t was done.” 

“Where was it done?” asked Ross. 

“Up at Salt Box,” replied Josiah. 

“ Salt Box” was the lonely cottage on the Downs, 
where Philips had had the mysterious interview, 
so called from its fancied resemblance to an old- 
fashioned salt-cellar in shape. 

“Ah,” went on Sally, “’twas a tramp as broke 
in and done old Flitney to death. Flitney lived 
there all by hisself, but no one ’ent bid there since. 
Some says as ’tis haunted, and I tell ’ee I doan’t 
like it when Josiah be up there o’ nights when ’tis 
lambin’ time.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


207 


Josiah took his pipe out of his mouth and looked 
at her a little contemptuously. 

“I b’ent affeared o’ ghosteeses,” he said, “and 
I doan’t believe in ’em neither. But there ’ent 
many Ard\m\on folks as ’ud go anights Salt Box 
when ’tis dark, however.” 

“It’s got an ugly name, has it?” asked Ross 
who was thinking of other things in connection 
with it. 

“Lord, bless ’ee, sir, there ’ent nothin’ at all in 
it. Twelve year ago there was a ghost seed there 
— and I found ’un in the marnin’, too. A turnip 
with a bit o’ candle inside and an old sheet. And 
I knows who put ’un there, too.” 

“Who?” 

The old man grinned. 

“Master Harry Wrenfield, sir. ’A were a rare 
pickle when ’a were a boy. Come down the vil- 
lage pretendin’ to be frightened to death at what 
’a’d seen when ’a were a-comin’ across the Downs. 
And a score or so o’ folks went up to hev a look, and 
come back sayin’ old Flitney was a-gazin’ out o’ 
the winder with his eyes afire. And believes it to 
this daay.” 

“So Master Harry knows the place well?” said 
Ross. “It’s lonesome enough. Few people pass 
that way, do they?” 


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“Now and agen folks as comes down from Lon- 
don by the other line goes by. Marton Station is 
nearer to Ardlm'ton than Wellborough, if you be 
walkin’. But there ’ent many as goes near.” 

Ross thought deeply. There was something 
strange connected with this Salt Box. Strange, 
that is, he thought, that Philips should have 
picked out the place for a rendezvous. Much 
loneliness in Australia had made Ross think out 
many psychological problems, and one of them was 
the curious propensity that some places have in 
attracting evil. The problem was occupying his 
mind now. Here was a place in which a murder 
had been committed; the atmosphere of evil had 
hung about it. Men shunned it, except for ne- 
farious purposes. Then it had its attractions. It 
had attracted Jim Thatcher, the poacher. It had 
attracted Philips, who he had associated with 
poaching of another kind — though, as yet, he 
knew not what. 

His reverie was disturbed by the bells commenc- 
ing to ring for afternoon service. On his return 
he gave his second party, a tea to his lads, and 
then went to his room to dress, for he had been 
invited that night to dine at the Vicarage. 

There were only the three of them. Ross had 
to wait a few moments in the drawing room before 


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209 


Gertrude Wrenfield came in. When she did, he 
looked at her frankly with the same glance of half 
surprise, half admiration, with which he had re- 
garded her on the previous morning when she had 
entered the church, and a slight colour suffused 
her cheeks as she met his gaze. 

For Harry’s words had told. It was her hair 
that made all the change — no longer brushed 
stiffly back from her forehead. Her evening 
gown, too, showed her figure to advantage, and 
the plain, pale-blue turquoise necklace she wore 
was just the touch of colour needed. 

“I’m afraid it’s a very quiet Christmas,” she 
said, as she shook hands with him, “but my 
brother and I both thought it would be less lonely 
for you if you came to us to-night.” 

“It’s very good of you, and I’m honestly glad 
to come,” he replied, “though I’m afraid it’s you 
who feel a bit lonesome.” 

“Yes,” she said, “I can’t help it. It isn’t quite 
like Christmas without them, you know.” 

“Ah, well,” he answered, “the time soon passes, 
Miss Wrenfield; only a few months and they’ll 
be back. How pleased your father will be to get 
home once more.” 

“Yes — he will, indeed.” She was sitting 
down now, looking at the fire. It cost her a little 


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effort to make the admission, for she was very 
much bound by the chains of “it was and ever had 
been.” But she did it. 

“But I am sure,” she went on, “the parish is 
in good hands. I told father so when I wrote to 
him a few days ago. He will be pleased to know 
it.” 

A smile hovered around Ross’s lips as he said 
to her dryly: 

“Even with my little — innovations?” 

“Oh, I think — I think you manage those lads 
excellently, you know. And I’m glad you’ve 
taken them up.” 

“They’re right enough,” he replied. “I hope 
you’ll be able to keep the football club going.” 

“I?” she asked with a smile. 

“Yes — you,” he nodded. “I really mean it. 
They all respect you so much, and if you just let 
them have a meeting or two that’s all that’s 
wanted. The bigger ones will be able to run the 
game itself when I’m gone.” 

The colour left her cheeks a little. She said, 
looking again at the fire: 

“Where do you think you will go when you leave 
Adlington, Mr. Ross?” 

“I am in the hands of the Bishop,” he replied; 
“so I take no thought for the future. I shall go 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


211 


where he sends me. At present/’ he went on, 
“I’m very content with Adlington — and I shall 
be sorry to leave. I am beginning to find friends.” 

She took up the poker and stirred the fire 
slightly with it. 

“You will miss the people at Hill Croft,” she 
said, quietly. “They are very hospitable.” 

His face grew very serious. A little frown 
wrinkled his forehead. 

“Yes,” he said shortly. 

“Hullo!” exclaimed Harry Wrenfield, entering 
the room at that moment. “They didn’t tell 
me the parson was here. A merry Christmas! 
And, I say, you gave us a perfect Christmas ser- 
mon this morning. Six minutes!” 

“I saw you timing me,” replied Ross, with a 
grin, “and I did my best to temper the wind to the 
shorn lamb.” 

Gertrude laughed. Her brother had got his 
retort — and knew it. The bell rang and they 
went in to dinner. Afterward there was a little 
music. Ross sang a ballad or two, and Harry 
finally prevailed upon his sister to sing. Ross sat, 
looking at her intently. 

“Thank you,” he said, when she finished. 
“Why didn’t you sing at the concert the other 
night?” 


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“Oh,” she replied, “they’ve heard me so often 
— and I rarely sing now.” 

“Then you ought to,” said Ross, bluntly. 
“You have a beautiful contralto voice.” 

“ Were you going to add ‘ which requires training,’ 
according to the usual formula?” she remarked. 

“If I had added anything I should have said 
what I think — and that is that it is the best con- 
tralto I have heard for twenty years.” 

“Oh, fie, Gertie,” said Harry, sarcastically, 
from the depths of an armchair, “fishing for com- 
pliments! What else could he have said after 
such a question?” 

Gertrude Wrenfield blushed in confusion. 

“That’s what I think. It’s no compliment,” 
said Ross. “Won’t you sing another?” 

“If you would like it,” she said. 

“Certainly I should.” 

She sang one more song, and then closed the 
piano. Presently Ross glanced at the clock and 
said he must be going. 

“I’ll walk back with you,” said Harry. “I 
want to stretch my legs.” 

“Do. And come in and have a smoke in my 
diggings.” 

“I will. I’ll go and put my boots on. Shan’t 
be long.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


213 


Ross was standing up, his back leaning against 
the mantelpiece. The girl looked at him. Some- 
thing in his manly, open face, his square chin and 
honest eyes raised an impulse within her. She 
acted upon it at once without stopping to think. 

“I’m glad you asked Harry in to smoke with 
you.” 

He looked at her keenly. With a judgment 
that instantly grasped a deeper meaning beneath 
her words he remained quite silent, waiting for 
her to speak again. She read the sympathetic 
thought in his eyes. 

“I should like my brother to have you as a 
friend — if he ever wanted one,” she went on. 

His reply took the form of a sharp question. 

“Does he want one now?” 

Again she looked at him. And she knew that 
this was a man she could trust implicitly. 

“Yes,” she said, “I think he does.” 

“Why?” 

The word was shot at her in an almost com- 
manding tone. 

“He might tell you if you get to know him. 
And you might be able to advise him.” 

But Ross thought otherwise. 

“I think,” he said, “your brother might hesi- 
tate to take me into his confidence. He might 


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want help more than advice, and he might not 
think that I could give him that help.” 

She elevated her eyebrows a little. What Ross 
said was absolutely true. How could he have 
guessed it? Then, with it all, the thought that 
what Harry really wanted was money, rushed into 
her mind. Her cheeks grew crimson. She felt 
she was asking too much — if Ross should ever 
know the true situation. Then, the first impulse 
prevailed. 

“I should like you to be his friend,” she said, 
simply. 

“And I will — because you want me to.” 

“Thank you.” 

“But,” he added, “if there is really trouble, and 
he won’t tell me, you must.” 

Again the thought of the money came into her 
mind. She looked down on the floor, thinking 
deeply. He repeated : 

“You must — if I am to help him.” 

A step was heard outside, in the hall. Miss 
Wrenfield raised her eyes, quickly. 

“You are accustomed to compel people,” she 
said. “I won’t promise. I will see. I do thank 
you, Mr. Ross — and I know I can trust you.” 

“All right,” said Harry, opening the door, 
“I’m quite ready.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


215 


“Good-night, and thank you for a pleasant 
evening,” said Ross, holding out his hand to Ger- 
trude Wrenfield. Their eyes met. She smiled a 
little. The clasp of his fingers was very cordial. 

“Good-night. I’m so glad you came.” 

She stood, looking at the door after it had closed. 

“I wonder what made him say that about help 
and not advice,” she murmured. “Surely he 
cannot know anything. He is very good,” she 
went on slowly. “I did him an injustice in my 
first thoughts of him. I wish Harry’s friends 
were all like him.” 

She suddenly turned, and looked at herself in 
the glass. She arranged the necklace round her 
throat, moved back a little, and then said very 
deliberately: 

“You are a very foolish woman. Go and get 
those prizes ready for to-morrow’s Sunday-school 
treat. You have the parish to think of — and Mil- 
dred Bruce is a dozen years younger than you!” 

She was still sorting out presents and prizes 
when her brother returned. 

“I thought you would have been in bed,” he 
said. “It’s half-past eleven.” 

“What do you think of Mr. Ross?” she asked, 
without looking up from her work. 

“Ross? Oh, he’s a very decent chap. I rather 


216 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


like him. He’s seen a good bit of the world, too, 
and any one can easily see he hasn’t always been 
a parson.” 

“He talked about Australia, I suppose?” 

“Partly. He’s roughed it a goodish lot out 
there.” 

He lit a cigarette. There was a long pause. 
Gertrude Wrenfield finished with her books and 
got up just as her brother murmured to himself: 

“Ah, I wonder ” 

“What?” 

He blew a cloud of smoke from his lips. 

“Does this fellow Ross ever talk about what he 
was and what he did before he went out to Aus- 
tralia?” 

“N — no. I don’t think he ever has. Why do 
you ask?” 

“I thought not. He wouldn’t to me, though I 
put him one or two leading questions. And I was 
wondering why he ever went to Australia at all.” 

“I don’t quite see, Harry.” 

“Oh, well, you know, he’s a man capable of a 
good deal, and men like that don’t often go to the 
Colonies unless there’s a reason. If they do they 
come back hall-marked — not just ordinary par- 
sons. Now, I shouldn’t be surprised,” he went on ? 
thoughtfully, “if the Reverend Howard Ross had 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


217 


what in vulgar terminology is called a ‘past.’ 
But if he had, you’d never get it out of him. He’s 
not that sort. Yes. I like the man, and I’ll tell 
you what Gertie — I wouldn’t care to have him 
as an enemy.” 

“Then I hope he’ll be your friend.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Ships that pass in the night,” he said. “He’ll 
probably be gone before I come to Adlington 
again. By the way, Gertie, I must write to that 
beggar, Joyce.” 

She understood perfectly. 

“I have written to the Bank at Wellborough,” 
she said. “I can let you have one hundred and 
twenty pounds. I’m sorry it’s not more. But 
it’s all I can raise. I’m going to bed now. I’m 
very tired.” 

“You’re a brick, old girl,” he replied, “and I 
don’t know how to thank you enough. It ought 
to stave matters off. Good-night!” 

And what, thought Gertrude Wrenfield, as she 
let down her hair and brushed it, did her brother 
mean when he said he believed that Ross had had 
a “past”? Perhaps he had. But it was an hon- 
ourable past — with nothing of which to be 
ashamed. The man’s face said that , even if his 
lips never referred to it. 


CHAPTER XVI 


Harry Wrenfield sat in a comfortable arm- 
chair in Philips’s study, smoking a good cigar, a 
whisky and soda on the table at his elbow. Phil- 
ips sat opposite to him and was twirling his mous- 
tache with his characteristic motion. The 
psychological moment for which he had both 
waited and prepared had arrived. 

For the last hour Philips had been talking about 
nothing but money. He had related stories about 
successful coups in business, of friends of his who 
had achieved wealth by careful calculations and 
opportunities taken at the right moment, of sums 
which he himself had made by judicious fore- 
thought. 

And all the time the young man had been lis- 
tening intently. Philips had a way of making his 
stories interesting, besides which, as he himself 
knew well, the subject of money was uppermost in 
Harry Wrenfield’s mind. 

Philips paused, selected a fresh cigar from his 
box, eyed it critically, opened his penknife, cut the 
end, put it in his mouth, took it out again, re- 
218 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


219 


placed it, struck a match with great deliberation, 
and began to smoke. 

“I wish I had a bit of your luck — or your 
friends’ luck,” ejaculated Harry, suddenly. 

“My dear fellow, I haven’t been talking about 
luck. I don’t believe in making money on chance, 
and I never bet on a horse or play any game of 
chance for money.” 

“What do you believe in, then?” 

“Certainties. All these things I’ve been telling 
you were certainties from the first. There was no 
risk. They only wanted a little brain work.” 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Harry, with a short 
laugh, “I wish I could find a certainty just now. 
I’d give all the brains I’ve got to pull it off.” 

Philips shrugged his shoulders slightly, but 
said nothing. The other man took a drink from 
his tumbler and went on. 

“But I never have any luck.” 

Philip raised his eyebrows. 

“ Luck again,” he exclaimed; “you shouldn’t go 
in for it. What have you been trying? Options? 
Horses? Poker?” 

“All three, I’m afraid,” confessed Harry, 
flicking the ash from his cigar into the grate with 
his little finger. 

“And you’ve lost?” 


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The young man nodded. 

“Yes, confound it.” 

“May I, as an older man, venture on a little 
advice? Give it up, my dear chap. It doesn’t 
pay.” 

Harry Wrenfield laughed mirthlessly. 

“Your advice comes a little late,” he said. 
“But I expect I shall give it up — when I get out 
of the wood.” 

“Have another peg? Say when. Right! But 
don’t wait till you get out of the wood. I’m 
awfully sorry you’re in difficulties. I know what 
it is myself.” 

“How did you get out?” 

“It was a long time ago,” replied Philips, 
thoughtfully; “I never believed in chance, as I 
told you, but I do believe in opportunities. So 
I set to work to look for one. And it came.” 

“What was it?” 

Philips twirled his moustache and a queer little 
smile hovered over his face. 

“Oh, that is a long story,” he said lightly, “and 
wouldn’t interest you. But, about yourself; is it 
serious?” 

Harry nodded. 

“You will pardon my paying so,” went on 
Philips, “I’m almost a total stranger to you. I 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


221 


shouldn’t talk about my difficulties, if I were you, 
too much. Of course / shall respect your con- 
fidence as you have chosen to give it to me. But 
it’s best to get out of the wood without making a 
noise about it if you can.” 

“Oh, I know that. I only told you because 
you’ve been talking of these matters. And, you 
see, well, you’re almost a friend of the family, in 
a way.” 

Philips bowed gravely. 

“Thank you very much,” he said. 

There was a long pause. Philips half closed his 
eyes. He was leaving the other man’s mind to 
work undisturbed. And, in his serpentine wis- 
dom, he was right. For the thought that kept 
coming uppermost in Harry’s mind was whether 
this man, with his evidently wide knowledge of 
the world and successful finance, could give him 
something more than advice not to gamble. And 
presently he blurted out what Philips was waiting 
for; he fell into a trap that the latter’s subtle 
brain had prepared, so he thought, to perfection. 
He did not know the only flaw in it, and that was 
the fact that a poacher was in the habit of using 
a rendezvous that he had imagined was absolutely 
safe. 

And what Harry said was: 


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“I wish you could put me on to one of your 
opportunities — a certainty , you know.” 

Philips helped himself moderately to whisky 
and filled up his tumbler with soda water. He 
thought for a moment or two before he said, 
slowly: 

“Yes — I wish I could. They are few and far 
between. Pve sometimes had to wait years for 
them. In fact, Pm waiting for one now, and I 
don’t know whether it will be a certainty or not. 
Indeed I doubt very much whether it will be. As 
it stands now it’s a very risky speculation and I 
never dabble in that sort of thing.” 

“What is it? If it’s not a rude question.” 

“Certainly not. Let me think. It’s a little 
complicated, but I fancy I can explain. It’s 
really a question of a concession of land in north- 
west Africa.” 

“Yes?” 

“Wait a minute. There’s an atlas somewhere 
in the house. I’ll go and ask Mildred for it.” 

He came back in a few minutes, opened the 
atlas at the map of Africa, and laid his finger on a 
certain part. 

“This map’s wretchedly out of date,” he said, 
“but it will show, roughly, the idea. Now a 
French expedition went somewhere through here 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


223 


last year. I know Captain de Natoye, the leader, 
very well. He gives a wonderful report of the 
country — you may have seen it, ” he added, 
casually. 

“Well — yes, I have,” Harry admitted, with 
evident reluctance. 

“Ah, then you’ll understand better. There’s 
ivory and gold — any quantities. The only ques- 
tion is, who’s going to have them? It’s a case of 
undecided territory.” 

“In what way?” 

“I happen to know that a French financier has 
the matter in hand. What they want is a con- 
cession. Now France claims most of this bit, 
somewhere about here ” — and again he laid his 
finger on the map — “and if one only knew that 
France was certain of having it it would be an 
opportunity. Like this: the shares, when once 
the company is promoted, would go like wild- 
fire. It would be perfectly possible, without any 
capital at all to speak of, to get an allotment; I 
mean it would be possible for me , and sell them in 
a few weeks at a good round profit. I consider 

this, remember, a certainty . But ” and he 

paused. 

“But what?” asked Harry, who had grown a 
shade paler as he bent over the map. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Is France going to have the territory at all? 
There are others who want it — and say they 
have a claim.” 

“Who?” 

Philips took his finger off the map, looked at 
Harry Wrenfield deliberately, and replied with 
a counter question. 

“Who do you think?” 

Harry took a gulp from his glass. 

“Germans,” he replied, looking down on the 
table. 

Exactly.” 

“And if Germany got it the certainty would 
vanish?” 

Again Philips looked him straight in the face. 

“Not if I knew beforehand that Germany was 
going to get it,” he replied. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Don’t you? Oh, think a bit. What would 
happen? Simply this: The French company 
will put the shares on the market early next 
month. But if they have, afterward, to get a 
concession from Germany there will be difficulties 
— only temporary, very likely — but enough to 
shake the confidence of those who hold the shares. 
So, if I knew Germany was going to have it, I’d 
still make my little pile, only I’d sell a few thou- 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


225 


sand shares beforehand instead of applying for 
them, and buy them in for settlement after they’d 
dropped. See? It’s very simple.” 

“Yes, I see,” said Henry, slowly and thought- 
fully, “it’s very simple — as you say. And if 
any one knew exactly what was going to happen he 
could speculate on these shares. Do you intend 
to do so?” 

“I can’t, if I don’t know,” replied Philips. “I 
only give it to you as an instance of how money 
might be made. As a matter of fact, I believe it 
depends upon neither France nor Germany — 
at least, so one gathers from reading between the 
lines of one’s daily papers.” 

“You mean ” 

“Well, it’s a question of British diplomacy, 
isn’t it?” asked Philips with apparent carelessness. 

“You think so?” said Harry Wrenfield, shortly. 

“Why, yes. Every one knows that negotia- 
tions are going on, and that Great Britian has 
stepped in just at the moment when Germany 
thought she was going to get the better of France. 
And it’s more than probable that we shall advise 
France on the point of ceding or withholding what 
you diplomatists call ‘spheres of influence.’” 

He brought in the words “you diplomatists” 
adroitly. It was at one and the same time a 


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touch of flattery and a phrase that made Harry 
realize his position. The young man smoked 
furiously for a minute or two. Philips re-lit his 
cigar. 

“Look here,” exclaimed Harry, abruptly, “if 
you could do this, so could others.” 

“If they knew,” remarked Philips, carelessly, 
blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips with ab- 
stracted gaze. 

“Supposing I found out? I could dabble in 
these shares.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you are one of the Foreign Minister’s 
private secretaries, and your position would be in 
danger if any one knew.” 

“ I could do it through others.” 

Philips shrugged his shoulders. 

“Could you trust any one?” 

The young man frowned. 

“I suppose,” went on Philips, very suavely, 
“you are merely stating an hypothesis? Inter- 
esting, of course; but you couldn’t really make 
use of any information you may get in your official 
capacity.” 

“No, of course not,” said Harry hastily. 

“Though, at the same time, it wouldn’t be be- 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


227 


traying secrets,” said Philips, as if thinking out a 
problem, “not as if, for example, you were be- 
traying them to another Power. It is not the 
same sort of thing at all. But, as I said, you 
couldn’t go and buy or sell shares on the strength 
of what you may know, even if you told some one 
— it would be sure to leak out. No. You mustn’t 
get out of the wood that way, Wrenfield. It 
wouldn’t do.” 

Again the man showed his subtle adroitness in 
mentioning the other’s difficulties. 

“Yes — please go on. Help yourself.” 

For Harry had stretched out his hand for the 
decanter. His face had grown very pale, his eyes 
shone, his brow was knit, and, when he had taken 
a drink, he held his chin in his hand. Philips 
watched him narrowly. Was it ever coming, or 
would he be obliged to have recourse to more 
open strategy? 

It came. 

“ You want to make money outof this, I suppose ? ” 

“My dear fellow,” and he laughed and shrugged 
his shoulders, “who doesn’t? But I don’t take 
risks, and I know nothing.” 

“Would you deal in some shares for me?” 

“Oh, well, I’m not a broker. And, you see, 
you’d have to tell me and trust me.” 


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Harry’s h and shook as he raised the glass to his lips. 
“Yes, I see.” 

“No,” said Philips, emphatically, “I certainly 
wouldn’t compromise you in that way. Best 
leave the shares alone, Wrenfield. But, at the 
same time, I’d give five hundred pounds — I’m 
talking nonsense,” he broke off abruptly. 

“What for?” 

“To see something.” 

“What?” 

Then Philips spoke very deliberately and 
slowly. 

“The map, if there is one, defining the exact 
spheres of influence which Great Britain advises 
France to lay before Germany.” 

He said he took no risks, but this was a big one. 
He had calculated that there was one uncertain 
card in the game, and he had played it now. As 
he spoke the words, he knew they summed up the 
subtle plan which had entered his quick brain 
when first he had heard that Harry Wrenfield was 
private secretary to Lord Brook. He knew that 
negotiations were dragging their ponderous steps 
through the Chancelleries of Europe. He guessed 
accurately, from a long acquaintance with the 
political game, that a great matter was at stake. 
He had found out all about young Wrenfield with 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


229 


this scheme in mind. And he had risked very 
little, only buying up a few I O U’s, which he had 
felt pretty sure would be paid off in time, even if 
the game failed. 

Harry Wrenfield clutched the arms of his chair. 
Philips went on: 

“Of course I only mean a rough copy,” he said; 
“that would be enough. And, as I say, I’d wil- 
lingly give five hundred pounds for it. It would 
be well worth it to me.” 

There was such a map then — or there would be. 
He saw it in Harry’s face. 

“I — I couldn’t!” exclaimed the young man 
hoarsely. 

“My dear fellow! I only suggested what it 
would be worth to me. Of course,” he added, 
thoughtfully, “even if you could — and did — it 
could never compromise you in any way.” 

“Unless — unless after you had made the 
money some one connected you with me.” 

“Oh, I always do business through agents. 
My name would not come out. Does it tempt 
you, Wrenfield?” 

He leaned forward suddenly as he spoke. The 
other was silent. 

“Well,” went on Philips, “it’s only between you 
and me, you know. And why shouldn’t it be a 


230 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


way out of the wood? It couldn’t hurt anyone, 
could it?” 

Harry Wrenfield got up, dashed his cigar into 
the fireplace and buttoned his jacket. 

“I think I’ll say good-night,” he announced. 

“I’m sorry you’re going. I was about to sug- 
gest a short visit to the drawing room?” 

“No, thanks.” 

“Well — if you must go !” 

He helped him on with his coat in the hall, 
saying, as he did so: 

“I hope I haven’t upset you, Wrenfield?” 

“No,” he replied shortly. 

“Think it over,” said Philips, in a low tone, as 
he opened the door, “and — well, come and see 
me again. Five hundred pounds, remember.” 

“Damn you — good-night,” said Harry Wren- 
field, breaking from him. 

Philips shut the door and returned to his study, 
a smile upon his face. 

“I’d rather he damned me than that he said 
he’d be damned if he’d do it,” he said to himself; 
“it’s a deal more promising. And he’ll do it, too. 
Well, after all, he’s safe. No one will ever sus- 
pect him. I may tempt him, but I’ll certainly do 
him no harm — and no one but myself will ever 
know his share in it.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


231 


He sat at the table and jotted down some figures 
on a bit of paper. 

“Not bad,” he said at length; “my five hundred 
will mostly go back into my own pocket when Joyce 
lets him redeem those bits of paper. And I shall ask 
three thousand pounds for the map — if I get it.” 

He went into the drawing room still smiling. 

“Why, father,” said Mildred, “I thought you 
were going to bring Mr. Wrenfield in. Has hegone ? ” 

“Yes. He went earlier than I expected. What 
have you been doing with yourself?” 

“Reading — that’s all.” 

“I’m afraid it’s been lonely for you. Tell me, 
Mildred,” he said kindly, “are you getting dull 
at Adlington?” 

“No, father, I don’t think so. Not now that we 
know some people. And I’m joining the hockey 
club at Wellborough.” 

“ I don’t want you to be unhappy here, you 
know, child. If you are, why, we ’ll go somewhere 
else, where it’s more lively.” 

“Oh, no, I’m very content. I like Adlington so 
much.” 

“Do you like Miss Wrenfield?” 

“Ye — es, I think so. But she is so much older 
than I am.” 

“So is Mr. Ross.” 


232 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Oh, but he’s different, father,” she replied, 
wondering at his sudden mention of the man. “I 
always look on him as a sort of — well, I don’t 
exactly know. He’s like the old cure who used 
to hold the services in the chapel at Thildonc. I 
always associate Mr. Ross with him, though, to be 
sure, there’s a difference.” 

“How?” 

“Oh, well, the old cure knew nothing of the 
la grande monde , as he used to call it, and Mr. Ross 
certainly does. And yet he reminds me of Mon- 
sieur le Cure. I often fancy he’s going to pat 
me on the head and say ma bonne fille , as the old 
priest used to.” 

Philips looked at her a little gravely. He was 
wise in many ways, but he asked a question that 
might have been foolish. 

“Is Mr. Ross falling in love with you, Mildred?” 

She opened her eyes in astonishment. 

“Whatever makes you ask such an absurd 
question? Of course he isn’t. I never dreamed 
of such a silly thing. Why, I believe he’s older 
than you, father, in spite of what you said once.” 

“I dare say he is. That’s all right then. 
Now, isn’t it time you went to bed?” 

“I’m just going.” 

“I have a letter to write that must go by the 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


233 


first post in the morning. Good-night, Mildred 
dear — I want you to be happy with me.” 

“I am , father dear. Good-night.” 

She kissed him, and went out. 

He sat down, rested his head in his hands, and 
thought. 

“She makes me feel a hypocrite,” he said to 
himself. “When she was at school it didn’t mat- 
ter so much. I’d given it all up for her sake when 

we came to England — and then 1 couldn’t 

help it. It’s bred in me. But,” he added, raising 
his head, “this is the last time; I swear it’s the last 
time. I wouldn’t have her know for worlds, and 
if it comes off we’ll leave Adlington. It’s best 
so. Poor little girl. I want to be a good father 
to her — and she’s only a child. I’m a damned 
fool to begin again, especially as I’ve got enough 
and to spare. But it’s the last time.” 

He went back to his study and wrote a brief 
letter, signing it only with his initials. The letter 
was this: 

“I think I shall get it. And I shall want three 
thousand pounds.” 

He cycled all the way to Wellborough in the 
morning to post this letter. And the stamp that 
he stuck upon it cost twopence halfpenny. 


CHAPTER XVII 


The particular state of being in which a man and 
a maid “ walked out” was recognized in Adling- 
ton with the same restrictions and peculiar meth- 
ods of etiquette which obtain in many country 
districts. It was understood that “walking out” 
was something entirely distinct from a matrimonial 
engagement, something which came before a def- 
inite proposal or “puttin’ o’ th’ question to her,” 
to use the local phrase. 

The parties were bound by nothing more than 
a state of probation. They were still free to 
marry others as they chose. But the state of 
probation was strictly defined by immemorial 
code. You couldn’t “walk out” with two girls 
at the same time — that is to say, you couldn’t per- 
ambulate Jane on Monday evening and Susan on 
Tuesday. You might “walk out” with the same 
girl for a year — or two — or three — but it was 
not lawful to have another, neither was it right 
for any other swain to walk your girl out. 

The monotony of perambulation might be 
varied. She might take your arm, or you might 
234 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


235 


encircle her waist with it. You might kiss her 
when you parted. These were trivialities and 
implied nothing definite. 

And, if you wanted to close the mutual agree- 
ment without “puttin’ o’ th’ question to her,” 
seeing that you “didn’ fancy she so much as you 
did at first,” no formal explantion was necessary. 
All you had to do was to get another girl some 
Sunday afternoon and parade her ostentatiously 
with your arm tucked in hers. Matters were un- 
derstood, and there was no redress for the former 
girl. She might use a certain amount of excus- 
able, if defamatory, language anent the new 
companion of your walks abroad; but there could 
have been no legal case for breach of promise 
where the latter had never been given. Her best 
revenge was to find another “chaap, rather better 
than you .” This she generally did! 

John Martin and Ruth Thatcher, in this peculiar 
stage of “walking out,” went forth on Sunday 
afternoon in approved form. There were other 
couples perambulating. By mutual instinct such 
couples chose divers directions. The way of a 
man with a maid leads both into seclusion. 

“Shall we go athert the Downs, Ruth?” 

The grass was fairly dry and she assented. 
They walked along arm in arm. Words were few 


236 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


and far between. This was customary. Odd 
bits of village gossip cropped up occasionally. 
They discussed, disjointly, their betters — to 
the disparagement of the latter. Presently Ruth 
exclaimed : 

“ ’Tis goin’ to rain — and I got my best hat 

__ m 

on. 

John looked around with long-practised eye. 
“’Twon’tbe moare nor a shower,” he remarked; 
“best hurry up and get shelter in the copse yon- 
der.” 

There was a little clump on the hillside with 
half a dozen fir trees growing thickly together at 
the edge of it. Under their branches it was quite 
dry, with a litter of spikes on the ground. They 
sat down at the foot of one of the trees. He rested 
his back against it, his arm round her waist as she 
leaned against his shoulder. There was silence 
for a minute or two. He broke it. 

“Ruth, I be fond o’ ’ee!” 

She sniggered and placed her hand on her hat 
to feel if the rain was coming in upon it. 

“Be ’ee fond o’ I, Ruth?” 

“Oh — I dunno.” 

“There ’ent ara chaap as ’ee loikes better?” 
She shook her head. 

“Well — we’d best marry, b’ent us?” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 237 

The proposal was out at last. She turned and 
looked him in the face. 

“Do ’ee really want I, John?” 

“You knows I do.” 

Ruth thought for a moment. She was emi- 
nently practical — and outspoken. 

“I can’t abide your mother and she can’t abide 
I,” she blurted out. 

“ She be nought to do wi’ it.” 

“I means I won’t live in th’ saame house wi’ 
she.” 

John tilted back his hat with his disengaged 
hand and scratched his head. There was only 
one alternative that occurred to him at the mo- 
ment. 

“And I couldn’t live in your house — along o’ 
your father,” he replied. “’Twoodn’t do.” 

“I never asked ’ee to. ’A woodn’t have ’ee, 
neither,” answered Ruth, with some asperity. 

He thought a little more and then said : 

“If there was ara cottage empty we could taake 
’un. Mother ’ud get on all right; she could taake 
in a lodger and I’d help her a bit out o’ ma wages. 
But there ’ent ara cottage.” 

“Yes, there be.” 

“Where?” 

“Muster Illbury lost his shepherd, ’ent ’a? 


238 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


Wants another badly. And you used to look 
arter sheep afore you took to gaamekeepin’, 
John. And there’s a cottage goes wi’ the job 
too.” 

John, in his amazement, slipped his arm from 
her waist and opened his eyes wide. 

“You wants me to give up ma work?” he ex- 
claimed. 

She nodded. 

“If you loves me as you says you do, you’ll 
give it up, John.” 

“Why? ’Tis a good job — and I loikes it.” 

Ruth contemplated the toes of her turned-up 
shoes a little, and then stated reasons. 

“’Twoodn’t never do for you to keep as you be 
if you wants I to marry ’ee, John. For father 
’ull bide the saame as ’a be now and I ’ent a-goin’ 
to run the risk o’ you and him cornin’ to logger- 
heads. ’Tis bad enough as ’tis. If you ketched 
he up to his tricks and got ’un put in prison, I 
oodn’t ha’ no moart’ do wi’ ’ee as we be now. 
And if you was to do it after we was married — 
ah — I telled ’un what I’d do to ’ee.” 

“What?” 

“Smack yer head!” quoth Ruth, energetically. 

John laughed. 

“I ’oodn’t moind.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


239 


‘‘But Fd leave ’ee as soon as Fd smacked ’ee 

— there!” 

He slipped his arm round her waist again. 
There was a sound of another kind of smacking 

— lips. 

“That’s enough, John. I ’ent said I’ll have 
’ee yet. And I wunt, neither — not unless you do 
what I says.” 

“But ” 

“There ’ent no buts. See? Either you or 
father must gi’ in. And I knows father wunt. 
’Tis bred in ’un too much. ’Tis stopped rainin’ 
now. Let’s get on.” 

She sprang to her feet. They were on the edge 
of the little copse, a slight undergrowth hiding 
them from the view of any one outside as they sat 
down. Ruth looked over this undergrowth and 
suddenly gave a start and a little cry of surprise. 
“What’s up?” asked John, preparing to rise. 
She turned upon him hastily. 

“Bide where you be!” she exclaimed. 

But it was too late. He was standing up, look- 
ing over the bush. Less than a hundred yards 
away a man, his back toward them, was down on 
his knees, intent upon something in the grass. 

John Martin forgot his love-making at the sight, 
forgot the predicament which had just been stated 


240 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


so forcibly, forgot everything but the pride of his 
calling and the instinct of triumph over an enemy. 
Without a single word be bounded forward, si- 
lently, over the crisp turf. 

The girl hesitated a moment or too, caught her 
breath, then made an effort and cried aloud in a 
shrill voice. 

“Look out, father!” 

Jim Thatcher sprang to his feet, turned, and 
faced his adversary. As he did so he made a 
quick backward movement with his arm, jerking 
something dark and heavy into a low-growing 
furze bush behind him. But it was too late. 
John Martin had seen it, and, as he came up, ex- 
claimed triumphantly. 

“Got ye at last! I saw what ’ee was up to. 
Pick up that hare, wull ’ee?” 

In reply Jim Thatcher clenched his fists, 
scowled angrily at the young gamekeeper, and said : 

“You be damned.” 

John Martin took no notice of this, but passed 
him, found the hare, and came back to the cul- 
prit. Jim Thatcher had never moved from the 
spot, and the two men stood facing one another, 
the one exultant, the other sullen. Neither of 
them noticed the girl, who was coming slowly for- 
ward from the copse. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


241 


“Well,” snarled the poacher, “I be caught, 
b’ent I ? And I ’ent a-goin’ to tell no lies about it. 
And what be you goin’ to do, John Martin?” 

“You knows very well what ’tis my business to 
do. I shall have to take this here hare to Major 
Bond and tell ’un you snared ’un,” replied the 
young man bluntly. 

“And he’ll have ma into Wellborough.” 

“That’s your lookout — if you will go a- 
poachin’.” 

“I doan’t blaame ’ee,” growled Thatcher, “but 
you be a fool to ketch I all the saame.” 

“’Tis what I be paid for.” 

“Why didn’t ’ee bide quiet when I told ’ee to?” 

Both men turned. Ruth was standing there, 
her face very pale, her breath coming and going 
quickly. 

“Be you a-goin’ to have father put in jail?” 

“I must do what I be paid for doin’,” reiter- 
ated the young man, adhering to his code of hon- 
our, but with his sense of triumph ebbing fast 
now that he was recalled to another of the realities 
of life. 

“I hates ’ee!” 

She spit out the words vehemently. John Mar- 
tin looked on the ground. Jim Thatcher looked 
at his daughter, a little smile upon his face. 


242 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“ ’T ’ent his fault, my gal,” he said, “but I just 
telled ’un ’a was a fool. And ’a knows it.” 

Moreover he began to look it. 

Ruth turned on him. 

“If you go a-tellin’ tales about my father and 
gettin’ ’un locked up, I wunt have no moare to 
do wi’ ’ee. I said how ’twood be. I telled ’ee 
all along as I’d gi’e ’ee up if ’ee ketched father. 
And I doan’t care, neither. For I tell ’ee I 
hates ’ee!” 

“Oh — Ruth!” exclaimed the embarrassed 
young man; “doan’t ’ee see I can’t help it?” 

“Doan’t ’ee worry yerself over ’un,” said Jim 
Thatcher, “’a ’ent worth it. If ’a loikes to tell, 
let ’un. There be moare chaaps nor ’a for ’ee 
to taake up with, and you ought to ha’ knowed 
better.” 

In reply the girl gave her father one reproach- 
ful look, sank down on the grass, put her face in her 
hands and sobbed bitterly. The two men looked 
askance at each other, and then at her. John 
Martin flung the hare on the ground, stooped 
down, and attempted to put his arm round her 
waist. She stopped crying for a moment and 
suddenly caught him a sounding box on the 
ear that knocked his hat flying. Then she 
howled again in exceeding bitterness, and 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


243 


presently began to ejaculate between her 
sobs. 

“We was just a-talkin’ — o’ gettin’ married — 
And ’a’d promised to gi’ up gaamkeeepin’ — ’a 
had.” 

“I never,” foolishly interrupted the luckless 
John. 

She sat upright and pointed her finger at him. 

“You did! I was a-tellin’ ’un,” she went on, 
turning to her father, “that I ’oodn’t marry ’un 
as things is now, and ’a said that Farmer Ilbury 
wanted a shepherd and ’a was goin’ to see ’un 
to-morrow to ask ’un for the job — you did! ” 

And she turned to John again. He rubbed his 
cheek. 

“I didn’t ’zackly say ” he began. 

But a mighty howl interrupted him. 

“You doan’t love ma — you doan’t — or you 
’oodn’t tell such wicked lies — and ’ee made ma 
say as how I cared for ’ee — and I did, then — but 
I hates ’ee now ” 

“I didn’t mean ” began John, when the 

poacher interrupted him. 

“Hold yer tongue, you fool! Look here, my 
girl. You speak the truth and doan’t have no 
moare o’ this nonsense. Do ’ee care for John 
Martin or doan’t ’ee?” 


244 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


She mopped her eyes with her handkerchief and 
nodded her head. 

“I loves ’un,” she said, as far as her sobs would 
let her; “’a knows I loves ’un.” 

“Do ’ee want to marry \m?” 

She nodded her head again — several times. 

“I wunt marry no one else, ,, she said. And 
there was a decisive tone in her voice. 

“But,” she added, “I ’ent goin’ back on ma 
word — and if ’a gets you locked up I wunt have 
’un.” 

Jim Thatcher tilted his hat back. Both men 
were scratching their heads now. The poacher 
looked at the hare, then at his daughter, then at 
John Martin. 

“What the devil be us to do?” he asked, in 
genuine bewilderment. “I doan’t want to stand 
in her way if she wants ’ee.” 

“But you have!” cried John bitterly, pointing 
to the hare. Compromise still seemed out of the 
question. 

There was dead silence, interrupted by an oc- 
casional sob. Jim Thatcher was thinking deeply. 
Suddenly he ejaculated: 

“Be you willin’ to give up gaamekeepin’ and 
go shepherdin’ for Muster Ilbury?” 

“I ’oodn’t moind.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


245 


“You said you’d do it!” blurted out Ruth. 

He was about to expostulate once more when he 
caught sight of her father’s warning finger. 

“And I ’oo/,” he said, wisely. 

“That be all right, then. Now, about this 
here hare?” 

“She belongs to Major Bond,” answered John 
Martin, “and I ought to taake her to ’un.” 

“You wunt,” said Jim Thatcher, bluntly. 

“I must,” ejaculated John. 

“You’d best not!” cried Ruth. 

“I’ll taake ’un to the Major myself,” announced 
her father. 

They both gave an exclamation of astonish- 
ment. 

“I ’oo/,” he went on, “and what I says I sticks 
to. Will that satisfy ’ee, John?” 

‘“No,” broke in the girl, “for you’ll be locked up 
all the saame and ’twill be John’s fault.” 

“If I be locked up,” said Jim Thatcher enig- 
matically, “I’ll give ’ee boath leave to break off 
the match. But I wunt be locked up — not if the 
Major’s the man I taakes ’un to be. The two 
hares I caught — leastways,” he stammered, 
while John eyed his bulging pocket keenly, “least- 
ways, this ’un belongs to he and I’ll taake it 
to ’un to-night.” 


246 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


And this was all they could get out of him. 

“You two go on back to ^r^lin’ton,” he ex- 
claimed, “and mind as you keep your word, 
John. I shall keep mine. I doan’t want ’ee to 
be unhappy, Ruth, and if ’ee fancies John, why, 
you’d best have ’un. That’s all I got to say!” 

Late that night the Reverend Howard Ross was 
sitting in his little parlour, reading. The old 
couple had gone to bed. He heard the gate click 
and in a moment or two there was a stealthy tap- 
ping on the window pane. He got up and opened 
it. 

“Yes?” he asked. 

“I see a light,” answered the voice of Jim 
Thatcher, “so I thought as mebbe you was in. 
Can I speak to ’ee a minute, sir, please?” 

“All right, I’ll let you in.” 

Jim Thatcher entered, wearing his old loose 
jacket. A chair and a ’baccy jar were produced. 

“Fust of all, sir,” began the poacher, “I wants 
to ask ’ee a favour. Could ’ee gi’ I a character, 
sir?” 

“A character?” exclaimed the parson, with some 
surprise. 

“I knows you can’t say as I be honest — as 
things goes — I b’ent. And you can’t say as I 
doan’t have a glass, at times. And I ’ent been 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


247 


anigh the church since they took my old ’ooman 
there, a goodish few years ago. But could ye 
saay as I be a man o’ my word, sir? That’s all 
I wants.” 

“What d’ye want it for?” 

“For Major Bond, sir.” 

“Major Bond?” cried Ross. “Explain, man.” 

Whereupon Jim Thatcher told him the events of 
the afternoon, adding: 

“I walked fower mile over to the Major, sir, 
and asked to see ’un, I began by gi’in’ ’un the 
hare and told ’un I snared ’un and ’twas his. 
You never see a man look so took aback like. 
Then I telled ’un all about John a-goin’ to marry 
Ruth and that ’a was goin’ to be Muster Ilbury’s 
shepherd.” 

“‘I shall stop that,’ ’a said; ‘I can’t afford to 
lose him. The best gamekeeper I ever had.’ 

“‘You ’00/ lose ’un,’ I says ‘and there’s a better 
man nor he as you can have if you’ve a mind to 
’t.’ 

‘“Who’s that?’ ’a asked. 

“‘The man as has bin a-snarin’ o’ your hares 
and a-taakin’ o’ your birds reg’lar, in spite o’ John 
Martin,’ I says, ‘and that’s me ! ” 

Ross leaned back in his chair and roared with 
laughter. 


248 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Set a thief to catch a thief !” he ejaculated, 

Jim Thatcher grinned. 

“That’s what the Major said, sir. And I telled 
’un ’twas quite right. Telled ’un too as ’a’d get 
double th’ amount o’ game if I was took on as 
keeper, seem’ as how ’t’oodn’t be right for I to 
help myself any longer.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Laughed at ma at first. But I maade ’un see 
there was summat in it afore I’d done wi’ ’un. 
Anyhow ’a said ’a ’oodn’t ha’ ma into Wellbor- 
ough and ’a asked if there was any one as ’ud gi’ 
ma any sort o’ character. I told ’un I thought 
mebbe you ’ood,sir, and ’a said ’a’d see ’ee about 
it.” 

Ross smoked thoughtfully. 

“You really mean it?” he said suddenly. 

“I do, sir, For the sake o’ the gal. I knows I 
b’ent respectable, but John be, and I wants ’a to 
have her.” 

“Good man! Now, look here — I’ll tell the 
Major you’re not all bad. And I’ll tell him I 
don’t think you’re a liar — in this case. And I’ll 
persuade him, if I can, to give you a trial. But 
— no nonsense, mind! I’m trusting you. See?” 

Jim Thatcher nodded his head gravely and 
thanked him in his blunt way. Then he said: 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


249 


“There’s summat else, sir. I thinks I ought to 
tell ’ee.” 

“What is it?” 

“You minds what I heerd up at Salt Box — 
a time back?” 

Ross nodded. 

“Arter I’d seen the Major to-night I stopped to 
have a glass at the ‘Red Cow,’ nigh his plaace, so 
I was a bit late o’ cornin’ home. The church 
clock was strikin’ ’leven just as I comes by Hill 
Croft, when the door opened and Muster Philips 
and Marster Harry come down the path to the 
gate. My eyes is like a cat’s in the dark, ’sides, 
I knowed their voices. So I just hid behind th’ 
old elm, close to the gate.” 

Ross’s face hardened. He felt he had encour- 
aged this eavesdropping. But he was bound to 
hear it out. 

“Go on,” he said, curtly. 

“Simmed as if this Philips had been persuadin’ 
o’ Marster Harry to do summat ’a didn’t want to. 
‘You’ll do it then,’ ’a says. ‘I ’ool,’ says t’other, 
sullen like. ‘When?’ asks Philips. ‘I can’t, not 
afore Tuesday week,’ says Marster Harry, ‘but 
I can get away then and bring ’em down.’ ‘You 
maun’t come to ^rilin’ton,’ says Philips; ‘you 
come down to Marton by the train as gets there 


250 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


at 5:35. ’Twill be dark then, and you’ll have 
time to walk over to Salt Box and put ’em where I 
telled ’ee, and ketch the eight summat train back 
to town. I shall go up later and fetch ’em. 
’Twon’t do to chance bein’ seen wi’ ’ee. And if I 
finds ’em there, why, I’ll send ’ee the notes the 
next daay.’ 

“Then they said good-night and Philips walked 
back to the house; while Marster Harry went to- 
ward the village, a-swearin’ low like to hisself. 
What do ’ee think on’t, sir?” 

Ross leaned back in his chair and closed his 
eyes. Then he leaned forward, laid his hand on 
Jim Thatcher’s knee, and said: 

“Look here, Thatcher, I’ve treated you as man 
to man and I’m trusting you. I’m going to tell 
you what I think, and I’m going to tell you some 
of my reasons for acting as I propose to do. I 
believe that Philips wants to get something of 
importance from Harry Wrenfield, and that, some- 
how or other, he’s managed to get him under his 
thumb. And I want to save the young man if I 
can, but I’ve got very special reasons for doing 
it without exposing Philips. I don’t think much 
of the man, but ” 

And he stopped short. Jim Thatcher knit his 
brow. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


25 1 


“Ruth never loiked I a-goin’ to jail,” he said 
slowly, “and I think I see what you means, sir; 
you’re a-thinkin’ o’ his daughter.” 

Ross looked at him, quickly. 

“Perhaps I am.” 

Thatcher nodded his head. 

“What I’m going to do — and you must help 
me — is to get hold of whatever it is first. That 
will save Harry, probably. You must be hidden 
up there when he comes, see where he puts this 
thing, and bring it straight down to me. Will 
you?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You’ll not tell a soul?” 

“No, sir.” 

“And you’ll not let him see you?” 

Jim Thatcher smiled. 

“I think I can manage that all right, sir.” 

“Good. That’s all I want. And I’ll do what 
I can with the Major to-morrow.” 

“Thank ’ee, sir. I knows you ’ool.” 

He rose to go. A queer little smile was on his 
face. He put his hand into the inner pocket of 
his coat. 

“I only give ’un one on ’em,” he said, drawing 
forth a fine hare. “This ’un is booked for some 
one else — but I thinks I shall ask for the skin 


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back and get ’un stuffed. ’Tis likely the last as I 
shall taake!” 

And he looked at it fondly. 

“Oh, get out, you rascal !” cried Ross. “Here, 
fill your pipe before you go. Good-night!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Harry Wrenfield came down to breakfast ear- 
lier than usual on Monday morning, having to 
take the “cock crow” train back to town. His 
sister was halfway through the meal as he came 
into the room. He glanced at the clock. 

“Hullo!” he said. “Fve plenty of time. 
Thought it was later. I forgot to wind up my 
watch last night.” 

And, taking it out of his pocket, he set it to the 
right time. 

“Did you have a pleasant evening at Hill 
Croft last night?” 

“Oh, fairly so,” he replied, helping himself to 
bacon. “I was a bit late back. Ross dropped in 
in the earlier part of the evening, after church, but 
he didn’t stay to supper. I say, Gertie, there’s 
something up in that quarter. Don’t you think 
so?” 

“What?” 

“I shouldn’t be surprised if the guv’nor finds 
he’ll have a wedding on hand soon after he comes 
back. You keep your optic open. This parson 

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254 


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of yours is head over heels in love with Mildred 
Bruce. I’m sure of it.” 

Gertrude Wrenfield rose from her seat, turning 
her back upon her brother as she went to the side- 
board for the ostensible purpose of cutting herself 
a piece of bread. It was several moments before 
she said: 

“What makes you think so?” 

“I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? Why, you must 
have noticed it yourself. He’s always dangling 
about after the girl. Last night he was arranging 
to take her out on the Downs this morning and 
give her lessons in golf — thinks he could make 
some rough links. Not a bad idea, either.” 

Gertrude sat down again. 

“I wonder if — if she cares for him,” she said, 
very quietly. 

Harry gulped down half a cup of coffee. 

“She’s only a kid,” he exclaimed, “and a very 
unsophisticated kid, too. So she’s open to flat- 
tery. Oh, she seems glad enough to have him 
dancing attendance on her, though he’s more than 
double her age. Trot out a few boys, and the 
case might be different; but, as it is, I shall ex- 
pect a line from you before long to say they’re 
engaged.” 

Gertrude looked intently at her plate as she 


LEFT IN CHARGE 255 

spread marmalade on her bread. Harry went on 
nonchalantly: 

“I can’t imagine what he sees in her, can you?” 
“She is pretty,” admitted Gertrude. 

“I dare say. But there ain’t much in her. 
Now, he’s a clever sort of fellow — regular man of 
the world — but they often go silly over a girl. 
He has.” 

She looked at him across the table. 

“I suppose,” she said, speaking very slowly, “I 
suppose there is something in what you say. 
Perhaps ... do you think her step-father 
suspects anything?” 

“Don’t know, I’m sure. Shouldn’t wonder. 
Anyhow, he’ll probably soon find out. Hullo! 
here’s the post.” 

The servant entered the room with a single letter 
on a salver, which she handed to him, saying: 
“The pony trap is quite ready, sir.” 

“Oh, all right. Tell George I’ll be there in a 
minute.” 

And he tore the envelope open, glanced at the 
letter, threw it down on the table angrily, and 
bolted his last morsel of toast, picked it up again 
and muttered something beneath his breath as he 
read the contents more carefully. 

“Anything the matter, Harry?” 


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“Only just what I expected,” he replied, getting 
out his pipe and filling it. “ It’s from that con- 
founded Joyce.” 

“What does he say?” 

“I offered him the hundred and twenty pounds 
on account, but he wouldn’t take it. Then I wrote 
to him again and asked him what was the longest 
time he could give me. This is to say he must be 
paid in full by the end of next week.” 

“Oh, Harry, I am sorry. What shall you do?” 

He shrugged his shoulders, got up, and lit his 
pipe. 

“If it’s really so serious I’ll write to father and 
ask him to advance the rest. He could sell out 
of something. I didn’t want to — but ” 

“You’re not to do that,” he broke in. “I’ve 
got something else up my sleeve. I’ll be even with 
the beggar yet.” 

“What is it?” 

“Never you mind. I’m not going to talk about 
it any more — it’s time for me to be off.” 

She followed him into the hall, helped him on 
with his coat, and stood at the door as he drove 
down the carriage drive. He waved his hand as 
the trap passed through the gate, and immediately 
afterward she saw him take off his hat to some 
one apparently in the road outside. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


257 


Then, as she stood there, she saw the Reverend 
Howard Ross and Mildred Bruce walk past the 
open gate on their way to the Downs. He had 
golf clubs slung over his shoulder, and she heard 
his hearty laugh at something his companion was 
saying. 

She stood a moment or two longer, one hand 
pressed on the pillar of the porch, motionless, 
looking vacantly into the distance, her lips tightly 
pressed together. Then, with a little sigh, she 
went back into the dining room. 

A moment later the servant came in. 

“If you please, miss, the women are waiting in 
the parish-room to pay their club money.” 

“Oh, dear me, Td almost forgotten them.” 

She hurried out. Every Monday morning, 
year in and year out, she presided over one of the 
parochial institutions in the shape of a Provident 
Club, into which the villagers paid small sums and 
took it out in coal or clothing at the end of the 
year, with a small bonus. 

She took her seat at the table in the little room 
that was used at the Vicarage for interviewing 
parishioners, her books before her — models of 
accuracy and neatness. One by one the women 
laid down their cards and pence, and she entered 
the amounts on cards and books. For every one 


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she had a word in season: “How is Johnny’s 
leg?” “Is the baby getting on all right?” 
“Has Mrs. Curtis heard from her daughter since 
she left home for service?” 

The same old methodical round of dull, drab, 
patient work. Somehow it jarred upon her that 
morning. The complaints of the women — most 
of them complained of some illness or the like — 
seemed so unutterably trivial, their outlook upon 
life so narrow and dense. She tried hard — and 
succeeded too — to be interested in each one of 
them, but with an effort, conscious to herself if not 
to them. 

The last one went out, muttering a last word 
about her rheumatism. Gertrude Wrenfield 
turned over the leaves of her account books list- 
lessly. Rows and rows of figures — clean, method- 
ical, scrupulously correct, hedged in by the red, 
undeviating, parallel lines. Year after year of 
them, as she turned the pages back and back — 
and all so like her own life, with their balance 
sheets of work done — dead — past. 

“Balance in hand ” 

“What!” 

A wave of rebellion came swelling into her being, 
rousing the bitterness of soul that her thoughts 
had brought upon her. She tried to keep these 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


259 


thoughts down. Her sense of duty had always 
prevailed with her, had been, perhaps, the ruling 
passion of her life, and so there had sometimes 
been a danger of ruling out all other passions. 

The worst of it is that sometimes, when you 
have regulated your life by a virtue and nothing 
else, there comes a moment when it is borne in 
upon you that that particular virtue is its own 
reward — and that there is no other reward. 
That the “balance in hand” of your life is the 
exact sum that the hard exercise of that particular 
virtue, whatever it is, has left to you, and that 
there might, perhaps, be a more abundant bal- 
ance had you speculated on the chances and op- 
portunities which that virtue sternly eliminated. 
For philosophy, at times, has an ugly habit of 
putting on a non-virtuous garb and parading 
herself to mock at you. 

Gertrude Wrenfield would not have put mat- 
ters in this bald form, but just then there was in 
her mind a sense of failure, a sense of something 
lacking in her life’s balance sheet that might, per- 
chance, have been entered under the heading of 
“Profit and Loss.” And yet, it was not so much 
the loss of the past as the loss of the present. She 
dared not even put it into succinct form, although 
she knew in her heart of hearts that the sense of 


260 


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this Profit and Loss was inseparably linked to the 
passing of Howard Ross and Mildred Bruce along 
the road outside the Vicarage gate. 

And she, who lived the Vicarage life, had no 
part in that other life — outside the Vicarage 
gate! 

There came a cantering of hoofs on the hard 
road. A man rode up to the Vicarage door 
dressed half as squire, half as parson. That is to 
say, he wore riding gaiters, a bowler hat, a cutaway 
coat with big, flap pockets, and a white clerical tie. 
The Reverend James Harper, Rector of Great 
Fentington and Rural Dean of Wellborough, was 
a well-known figure in the neighbourhood. He 
rode to hounds and presided over Rural Deaconal 
Chapters with equal ease and assurance. He 
preached a fluent sermon or talked wittily at a din- 
ner party with the same natural manner. He was 
alike the friend of parson, squire and farmer. 
There were some, indeed, who said that if he had 
a fault it was that he was a trifle too inquisitive 
and fond of being well-informed in the business of 
other people. His long, thin nose would have 
told you that, emphasized, as it was, by his 
straight, dark hair and old-fashioned half whis- 
kers. He dismounted from his horse, threw the 
bridle over his arm, and rang the bell. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


261 


The servant told him that George was driving 
Master Harry to the station. 

“All right,’’ he said, pleasantly. “I know the 
way to the stables and I’ll just make my nag se- 
cure there if you will kindly tell Miss Wrenfield 
I am coming in to see her.” 

“You must excuse a morning call,” he ex- 
claimed when Gertrude entered the room into 
which he had been shown. “But I have an en- 
gagement after lunch, and I wanted to see you to- 
day rather particularly. And how is your dear 
father? Better, I hope?” 

Gertrude told him the news about the old Vicar 
and he listened attentively. 

“We shall all be glad to have him back,” he 
said presently, “for many years to come, I trust. 
And the parish? But I need hardly ask about 
that. I’m sure everything is going well while you 
are in charge, Miss Wrenfield.” 

She smiled a little. A couple of months ago 
she would possibly have taken the compliment as 
her just due. But now she said, hesitating a 
little : 

“The Bishop found us an excellent locum ten - 
ens in Mr. Ross. He gets on with the people quite 
nicely.” 

“Ah,” exclaimed the Rural Dean, “I was going 


262 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


to ask you if the Bishop knew about Ross. He 
sent him to you, then, I take it?” 

Gertrude Wrenfield looked at him a little sur- 
prised. Then, remembering the man’s idiosyn- 
crasy, she said: 

“Oh, yes. We left everything in the Bishop’s 
hands, you know. He was so very kind about 
father’s going away — so ready to help.” 

“He would be — dear man,” murmured the 
Rural Dean. “I called upon Ross,” he went on, 
looking out of the window as he spoke, “but he 
was out — and there was a meet the day he re- 
turned my call.” 

“Then I suppose you were out?” she said, 
smiling. 

“I was. We had intended to ask him to 
luncheon.” He paused, looked out of the window 
again, then at her, and went on, rather abruptly: 

“Miss Wrenfield, I always look upon you as a 
very level-headed and capable woman. We all 
do. I’ve come to see you on a very delicate and 
difficult matter, knowing that you will treat it 
sensibly.” 

“I will do what I can.” 

“I did not care to worry your father about it 
and I look upon you as occupying your father’s 
place here. So, after thinking it over most care- 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


263 


fully, I came to the conclusion that I ought to see 
you before taking further steps — if any.” 

“What is it?” she asked, with a premonition of 
impending trouble 

“It concerns this locum tenens of yours. I 
shall have to speak very plainly, but there is 
something about him which I feel you ought to 
know — which, I am sure, the Bishop did not know 
or he would not have sanctioned his coming here.” 

She sat motionless, pallor creeping over her 
face, and waited in silence for what he had to 
say. 

“About a fortnight ago an old friend of mine — 
a Captain Moffat — was staying with me. He 
happened to see Ross in Wellborough — not to 
speak to — in the street, I think, and he was sure 
that he recognized him as a man he had known 
years ago. He asked my man, who was driving 
him, who he was, and my man knew him as your 
locum — knew his name. Then Moffat felt sure 
about it and told me privately what he knew. I 
received it with a considerable amount of caution 
at first, but I made inquiries — careful inquiries 
— and I am quite satisfied that Moffat is right. 
In fact, there isn’t the slightest doubt about it.” 

“What did Captain Moffat tell you about Mr. 
Ross?” she asked coldly. 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


‘That he is a divorced man,” replied the Rural 
Dean. And he said it with all the condemnatory 
tone of a rigid ecclesiastic. 

She started. The revelation was so sudden. 
And she was a true daughter of the Church. A 
divorce, even if innocent, was a being somewhat 
apart from Christian brotherhood or sisterhood. 

“Mr. Ross — was married?” she exclaimed, 
mechanically. 

He nodded. 

“And — and — divorced his wife?” she went 
on. 

“No,” replied the Rural Dean, with some acer- 
bity, “ she divorced him. That is the point of the 
whole matter.’ 

“It — it can't be true.” 

He shook his head. 

“On the contrary. There isn’t a doubt about 
it. May I tell you?” 

“Yes — go on,” she said, faintly. 

“His real name is Ross-Trevor. The ‘Trevor’ 
came to him when he inherited some property, 
and I suppose he found it convenient to drop it 
— after the case. He married rather young in 
life. Three years afterward came the action. 
The charge was cruelty and infidelity. There 
was — er — you see — another woman. It was 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


265 


undefended. Of course, it meant that he was 
ostracized, so he went to Australia. Moffat 
knew something of his life out there.” 

“Did he — did he take — the other woman 
with him?” 

“No. She seems to have dropped out of it — 
or he dropped her, very likely. In Australia he 
passed as a bachelor — as he does now, I pre- 
sume,” he added, a little viciously as beseemed 
outraged Christian righteousness. “He did all 
kinds of things there — mining, sheep-farming, 
and so on. A few years ago he took Holy Orders. 
How he could have satisfied his conscience I don’t 
know, and how any Bishop could have ordained 
him without making full inquiries passes my com- 
prehension; except, of course, that it was only a 
Colonial Bishop.” 

For, in the eyes of the Anglican ecclesiastic, 
sometimes there are even grades in the episcopacy. 
A Colonial Bishop, you see, is never quite — what 
shall we say? Better perhaps leave it at that — 
he is never quite! 

There was a silence for nearly a minute. Then 
Gertrude said, in a constrained voice: 

“And what became — of his wife?” 

“I don’t know. Moffat didn’t know. She’s 
probably living still.” 


266 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“ Living still!” 

She almost started as she uttered the exclama- 
tion. The full horror of the thing was dawning 
upon her. If what the Rural Dean said were true, 
here was a man, disgracefully set apart — in the 
eyes of the world, but not of God — from his wife, 
who was still alive. It was unbearable. She 
looked aghast at Mr. Harper. He nodded, em- 
phasizing his last statement. 

“I thought you ought to know this,” he said. 
“It is a very painful matter — but — you under- 
stand my official position — and I wanted to help 
you in any way that I could.” 

“Thank you,” she said, scarcely feeling, how- 
ever, that she did thank him, all the same. 

“Are you quite — quite sure?” she asked him 
again, presently. “ It all sounds so very terrible, 
Mr. Harper.” 

“I fear there is little doubt about it. Moffat 
certainly promised to send me more details. He 
is acting quite confidentially — but — from all I 
have heard already !” 

And, shrugging his shoulders, he relapsed sud- 
denly into silence. 

“But — how could he have been ordained?” 

“It was a Colonial Bishop, as I said. I should 
imagine he was not very careful in his inquiries. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


267 


They are often only too glad to get men over 
there — they are scarce. I can think of no other 
reason.” 

“And what — what do you promise to do — if 
it is as you say?” 

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 

“I would not wish to worry your father ” 

“No — of course not.” 

“I might — if you wished it — find some other 
man — till your father returns. I would spare 
my own curate for a Sunday or two, willingly.” 

“You mean that I — that you would have to 
ask Mr. Ross to go?” 

“He is not licensed. I could act officially.” 

She thought a moment. 

“No!” she exclaimed. “It seems underhand. 
I can’t help it, but it does. Let us wait, at all 
events, till you hear from Captain Moffat again. 
It is only fair. And even then — if he tells you 
the worst — Mr. Ross ought to have the chance 
of explaining. Please let us do nothing rashly, 
Mr. Harper.” 

He looked at her a little curiously. He had 
thought she would have been only too glad to 
throw the whole case upon him. He was no cow- 
ard, and was quite prepared to use the sternest 
measures that lay in his power, with, of course, 


268 


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the consent of the Bishop. The sin was horrible 
in his eyes — a man who, ipso facto , had partially, 
at all events, cut himself off from the Church, to 
act as a priest. It was heinous in the extreme. 

Why should Gertrude Wrenfield, then, wish to 
defend him in any way? She was the model of a 
good churchwoman in the neighbourhood. He 
could not quite understand it. Again he stroked 
his chin. He registered a mental resolution, but 
said nothing thereof to her. He got up from his 
seat. 

“I will do what you wish,” he said, “and, mean- 
while, don’t hesitate to ask me if I can be of any 
help. It is very painful. I know, I know.” 

“You are very kind. I hope — it may be 
better than you think.” 

He shook his head and frowned a little. A 
minute or two afterward she heard him ride out 
of the gate. 

“Well, at any rate, I’ve warned her,” he said 
to himself, complacently, “and I feel there is 
another duty to be done. I shall write to the 
Bishop at once. He ought to know.” 

Gertrude Wrenfield had steeled herself during 
the interview. She had tried to answer Mr. 
Harper calmly and dispassionately. Now that 
he was gone two scalding tears broke from her 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


269 


eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She knew — 
for her heart told her — that this man had been 
growing into her life during the short time he had 
been at Adlington. She had set her face against 
him when he came. She had tried to withstand 
him, even to rebuke him. And to no purpose. 
She had struggled with her feelings, but to no use. 
For she loved Howard Ross with the intensity of a 
strong nature which had for years been restrained 
by the barriers of perpetual duty. 

Only just before the Rural Dean called she had 
been steeling herself — trying to control the pas- 
sionate sense of loss that had been borne in upon 
her. The routine of Gertrude Wrenfield’s life 
may have been dull and petty, cramped in its out- 
look by the limited horizon of the Vicarage ideals, 
but her nature was a noble one. The world out- 
side might not recognize it, but this nobility of 
character had been the basis of her work in Adling- 
ton, and had endeared her to the hearts of the 
people in spite of the methodical primness of her 
methods. 

It was asserting itself now. She had been tell- 
ing herself that if she really loved this man she 
should make the sacrifice with a ready will, for 
his sake. Not the mere resignation to the fact 
that he loved another woman — the bowing be- 


270 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


neath the stroke of an adverse fate — but the willing 
sacrifice of her own heart in the prayer and the will 
for his happiness before aught else — the total 
conquest of self in the desire for the welfare of 
another, and the total acquiescence in all the 
means that led to his welfare. 

She had come to trust the man so much. And 
now the revelation of what he was was tearing at 
that trust. 

“It can’t be true,” she murmured. “He 
couldn’t, couldn’t do it if it were true.” 

She raised her head as she said the words. The 
real significance had only struck her at that mo- 
ment. Hitherto the shock had been directed at 
her own ideal. Now the strict sense of right and 
wrong, in which the lines of her life had been cast, 
was bringing home to her another aspect. 

“7/ it is true,” she went on, “and he wants to 
marry Mildred Bruce — oh!” 

A shudder ran through her. 

“That which God hath joined together, let no 
man put asunder.” 

It was the unanswerable decree. She had been 
brought up in the strict ecclesiastical aspect of the 
question of marriage. Her father, tender-hearted 
as he was, would have abhorred the very thought 
of performing the marriage ceremony over a di- 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


271 


vorced person, had that person been absolutely in- 
nocent and sinned against. The marriage might 
have taken place at a Registry Office — but never 
under the blessing of the Church. And if this 
thing were true, if the woman who had divorced 
him were still living — (even if she were not , for 
he had been the guilty party) — what about Mil- 
dred Bruce?” 

She wanted to think the best of the man. She 
wanted to shield him. That was why she had 
taken the course of procrastination. 

“But if it were all true?” 

Then, there was something even worse than his 
occupying the priesthood. The wrong that was 
being done to this innocent girl — a mere child. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “must I do it? Ought 
I to tell her? Oh, God, help me!” 

Even then the nobility of her nature was trium- 
phant. There was no thought of petty jealousy, 
no thought that even if she was doomed to lose 
him the other would have to lose him too. An 
infinite whelm of pity for Mildred filled her heart 
as she sank forward on the table, buried her head 
in her hands and gave way to the intense sadness 
that had stricken her. 

And yet she prayed the prayer of hope — that 
prayer that sometimes from its very strength be- 


272 LEFT IN CHARGE 

seeches the Creator to put back the clock of 
time. 

“0 God, grant that it may not be true!” 

The Creator, even, cannot put back the clock 
of time. But He does, in His infinite compassion, 
blot out the very echoes of the fatal hours that 
have struck. For, our Father shows His wis- 
dom as well as His mercy in forgetfulness. Would 
that His children could sometimes rise to the truth 
that perfect love blotteth out remembrance. 

As soon as the Rural Dean reached his home he 
sat down and performed what he considered to be 
his strict duty. He wrote a letter to the Bishop 
informing him of the case against Ross, a perfectly 
fair letter, simply stating the facts as they had 
come to him and leaving the matter, and his own 
future actions, in his lordship’s hands. The only 
thing he did not mention was that he had told 
Miss Wrenfield. He considered there was no need. 

As a man the Rural Dean was an exponent of 
good society; as a priest he prided himself upon 
being an equally good exponent of ecclesiastical 
function and offices. Therefore he was, in the 
Prayer-book sense of the word, quite “ discreet,” 
and had not even mentioned the rumour about 
Ross to his own family. 

The letter went to the post and the Rural Dean 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


273 


went to his lunch. The midday mail had just 
arrived, and with it the January number of the 
Diocesan Magazine. He opened it. On the 
first page under the heading, “The Bishop’s en- 
gagements,” he read these words: 

“The Bishop hopes to take a fortnight’s holi- 
day at the commencement of the month, and will 
be unable to attend to his official correspondence 
until his return.” 

“H’m,” thought the Rural Dean, “I needn’t 
have been in such a hurry. I shan’t hear from 
him before the end of next week.” 

In anticipation it may be remarked that he 
heard from Moffat the following Monday, and 
from the Bishop at the date he conjectured. The 
Bishop’s letter was extremely terse: 

“My Dear Rural Dean — Thanks for your 
letter, but I already knew all about Ross — be- 
fore I sanctioned his going to Adlington. I trust 
you have mentioned the matter to no one but 
myself, and I hope you will refrain from doing 
so.” 

“Yours sincerely, 

“T. Norchester.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


“I be maain sorry, sir, but I couldn’t find 
nothin’,” said Jim Thatcher. 

“ Quick, man, tell me the whole story — and 
speak low. What happened?” asked Ross. 

“ I went up to Salt Box as you told me, sir — in 
good time. - And MarsterHarry came right enough.” 

“You’re sure?” 

The man nodded. 

“I was just inside on the stairs wi’ the door 
ajar. I know’d ’twas he right enough, ’cause ’a 
struck a wax match when ’a corned into the room. 
Though ’a had a soft hat pulled down over his 
eyes, and a muffler round his throat and there 
warn’t much o’ his face to be seen.” 

“Couldn’t you see what he did?” 

“He were too artful, sir. Once the match were 
out ’a went to work in the dark, whatever ’twas. 
I couldn’t see nothin’.” 

“How long was he there?” 

“Not above a couple o’ minutes, sir. I heerd 
’un say, ‘Thank goodness, thaC s done,’ and then 
the latch clicked and ’a was gone.” 

274 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


275 


“And you?” 

“ I had to wait a bit to give ’un time to get clear 
awaay afore I lit my bit o’candle. Then I looked 
all over the room carefully, but there warn’t 
nothin’ to be seen nowheres. I looked up the 
chimney, in the cupboard — everywhere there 
was to look. There was nought, sir.” 

“There must be, though. Let me think a 
bit.” 

The Reverend Howard Ross lit his pipe and 
glared into his fire. Suddenly he said: 

“There’s only one thing to be done, Jim. I 
shouldn’t wonder if it hasn’t turned out for the 
best. It’ll bring matters to a head, at all events,” 
he went on grimly. “You go home and keep 
your mouth shut. The rest of the game’s mine 
— my word!” 

In his excitement, he relapsed into an Aus- 
tralianism. 

Jim Thatcher looked at him a little dubiously 
as he got up, buttoned his coat, and took his cap 
off the table. 

“Don’t you run no risks, sir,” he said. 

“Risks?” laughed Ross. “Good Lord, man, 
what are you thinking of? I’ve run a hundred 
times the risks you ever dream of. I could tell 
you a thing or two — but there,” he broke off, 


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LEFT IN CHARGE 


“I’ve got to see this thing through, and I’m glad 
of it. I shall want a lantern. Here we are — 
no — of course I’m not going to light it — not 
yet. You do as I tell you and get home. You’re 
a good sort, Jim — and I’m trusting you to keep 
this to yourself, for young Wrenfield’s sake. 
See?” 

“I ’ool, sir. And for your sake, too. You’ve 
done me a good turn, and ” 

“Oh, that’s all right. Good-night!” he said to 
the other as they both came out of the house to- 
gether. 

With great strides Ross hurried along the road 
through the darkness and reached the Downs. 
They looked black and mysterious in their grim 
loneliness. He hesitated for a moment or two. 
There was so little to guide him, and the dim hor- 
izon line was quite bare of any mark. He glanced 
upward. A few clouds were drifting slowly across 
the sky, between them the stars shining. 

“Pretty well due north, I reckon,” he mur- 
mured. “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been 
beholden to ’em, and the Great Bear is as good as 
the Southern Cross any day. Here goes.” 

He set out over the stubbly grass with the air 
of a man who was bent on a certain errand. 

“There’s only one thing,” he said to himself. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


277 


“ If Philips is somewhere on in front it’s a bad bit 
of luck. But I’ll tackle him anyway. It’s about 
time I did. There was bound to be an under- 
standing between us sooner or later, even if it 
don’t go so far as telling him everything. I’ll 
not do that if I can help it; but still, I’ll not scruple 
to use my last weapon — for the sake of Mildred. 
If I didn’t think he cared for her so much and she 
for him I’d have to risk all — but, as it is, I hope 
he’ll throw down his cards without seeing me.” 

He smiled grimly at his own allusion to the 
game. 

“Bluff’ll have to win — if I can manage it,” he 
went on, “and I think I’ve cards enough without 
drawing more. Wonder what this is that Wren- 
field’s brought him. He’s got a hold over the chap 
somehow, but Howard Ross ’ll be even with him.” 

Presently he went on. 

“I promised her I’d stand his friend and I don’t 
go back on it. I’d do a lot more than this for her!" 

This set the train of his thoughts in other chan- 
nels. He quickened his pace a little. Something 
had been troubling him during the last few days. 
It had seemed to him that Gertrude Wrenfield’s 
attitude toward him had suddenly become con- 
strained. He had noticed it more than ever at 
the choir practice on the previous evening. As 


278 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


usual, he had stayed behind to help her put up her 
music and to make final arrangements for the 
hymns on Sunday, but she had scarcely addressed 
a remark to him as he walked back with her to the 
Vicarage door. 

“It’s silly to think,” he ejaculated; “ after all, 
what am I to her? Simply a stop-gap for a few 

months — a bird of passage. It isn’t likely ” 

He stopped short and walked on rapidly. 

“I’ve got beyond that,” he said, bitterly, 
“years ago, and I’ve despised women ever since. 
But she’s different. It was plucky the way she 
tried to tackle me when I first came, and it was 
pluckier still for her to come in and acknowledge 
it. There’s real grit in her, and some man’s lost 

a chance of a good woman. By George! if I ” 

Again he stopped short, peering forward into 
the gloom. A dark, unshapely mass stood against 
the horizon. As he drew nearer he recognized it 
as the lonely cottage with its clump of trees. 

“Here we are,” he exclaimed. “The first 
thing is to find out if Philips is here, and then to 
wait. If I’m first, there’s going to be a bit of 
melodrama by and by. Well, I feel in the mood 
for it. If he’s a thoroughgoing blackguard I’ll 
have to fight to the finish. If he’s not, as I 
strongly suspect, it ’ll be a drawn game as far as 


LEFT IN CHARGE 279 

I’m concerned, but a trick taken for young Wren- 
field” 

He advanced to the cottage very cautiously. 
It was pitch dark. He waited a minute or 
two near the entrance, and then lit his lantern, 
stooped down, and made a careful examina- 
tion of the ground just in front of the door. 
It had been raining in the morning and the 
path was soft and moist. It was easy enough to 
an old bush tracker like himself to find out all he 
wanted. 

“That’s all right,” he said, presently. “There’s 
the print of Jim’s thick boots, and there’s Wren- 
field’s. Only two. No, I’m in time. I’ll have a 
good look round first, anyway.” 

Entering the room he searched every corner of 
it quickly but thoroughly, even poking among 
the ashes and rubbish in the grate. But he could 
find nothing. 

“ It’s here, all the same, though,” he said. “He 
wouldn’t have come all the way from London for 
nothing. Well, Philips, my boy, you shall find 
it for me and I’ll watch you doing it.” 

He looked round quickly, resting his eye on the 
door that led to the stairway. He had the key of 
this door in his pocket. Jim Thatcher had given 
it to him. 


280 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“No,” he said, “I couldn’t get a fair view that 
way. I must be outside.” 

Extinguishing his lantern he went out, closed 
the door, and carefully hid himself behind a low- 
growing bush some ten or twelve yards away. 
The night was cold, and as the time went on he 
wished he had put on an overcoat, but he set his 
teeth and remembered that he had spent many a 
worse night in the bush. 

He had the side of the cottage in full view, 
standing out dimly against the skyline. For 
more than an hour he never took his eyes off it, 
listening for the slightest sound. 

Suddenly, a little way to the left of the cottage, 
he caught sight of a tiny red point of light moving 
on the Downs. 

“Here he comes!” he said to himself, “smoking 
a cigar.” 

The point of light drew nearer; he could dis- 
cern the faint outline of a man. Then there came 
a sudden bright flash as the man approached the 
door of the cottage. He had turned on an electric 
hand lamp. 

On the threshold he paused, turned, and flashed 
the light over the deserted garden. Ross held 
his breath and crouched close. The next moment 
the latch clicked and Philips went into the cottage. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


281 


Ross rose to his feet and swiftly made his way 
to the window. From this point he had a full 
view of the room. He gave a grim smile of satis- 
faction at the scene that was being enacted in- 
side. 

Philips was down on his knees against the wains- 
cot of the opposite wall. Inserting the point of a 
knife, he drew out the ricketty board which evi- 
dently was not fastened, put his hand behind, 
and picked up a long, foolscap envelope. 

The next moment he was sitting on the broken- 
down sofa, facing Ross. He put the lantern down 
beside him, tore open the envelope, and drew from 
it a sheet of tracing paper which he eagerly un- 
folded and spread on his knees. The lantern was 
so placed that its one bright ray of light fell right 
across him, leaving the door in half shadow. 

Then Ross acted. Before Philips had time to 
examine his find the clergyman stood in the en- 
trance. 

“Here, you give that up!” 

Philips, quick of action, sprang to his feet, his 
right hand going into his pocket as he did so. 
There was a flash and a sharp report. Ross 
sprang forward, knocked up his arm with one 
stroke, the weapon spitting out again as he did 
so, recovered, and with a second stroke delivered 


282 


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straight from the shoulder, caught Philips fairly 
on the point of the chin and sent him spinning 
backward over the crazy old sofa. 

“Ah, would you?” he snarled, as he hit out. 
The shot had made him vicious. Besides, there 
was a sting in the fleshy part of his left arm, just 
above the elbow, that told him he had been hit. 

Philips lay like a log. Ross picked up the 
lantern and bent over him. The man was breath- 
ing heavily and a tiny trickle of blood was oozing 
from his head. He had struck the wall behind as 
he fell. 

“All right, you beggar,” growled Ross, “you’re 
only stunned a bit. Let you lie a minute or two. 
Best have this out of his reach first, though,” and 
he picked up the revolver and pocketed it. 

“Now, let’s have a look!” he exclaimed, tri- 
umphantly, holding the lantern over the paper. 

“By George!” he exclaimed, as the contents 
dawned upon him; “no wonder he was so careful. 
It’s nothing less than a State secret — that’s 
about the meaning of this map. You’re playing 
a deep game, Master Philips; it was about time I 
struck in.” 

Philips slowly rose from the floor, rubbed his 
head, and gazed about him with a dazed expres- 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


283 


sion. Gradually his senses returned. Before 
him stood Ross in his shirtsleeves, his left arm 
bare, engaged in knotting a handkerchief around 
it with his teeth and his other hand. 

“Not a bad shot, Philips,” he said, grimly, 
“for a chap taken by surprise. But it hasn’t done 
any harm — only a little flesh wound, and the 
bullet clean through. Sorry I had to retaliate 
with strong measures, but you were a bit danger- 
ous, you know.” 

“What the devil do you mean, spying on me 
like this?” growled Philips. 

“I might ask in return what you meant by try- 
ing to plug me?” retorted the parson. “It was a 
silly thing to do.” 

“I didn’t know who you were,” muttered 
Philips, “and you shouldn’t have interfered with 
my private affairs. I object to being tracked 
about like this. What have you done with that 
paper I was reading?” 

“In my pocket. Best place for it.” 

Philips stood up, twirling his moustache. He 
looked at Ross. The latter’s face was grim and 
dertemined. 

“That paper is mine. I insist upon your giving 
it to me at once.” 

“I decline to do so.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


There was silence for a moment or two. Philips 
was trembling with suppressed rage. 

“If you don’t give it to me at once, I shall ” 

“ What shall you do?” broke in Ross. 

“You’ve no right to it.” 

“Neither have you.” 

Philips’s face grew very pale in the white ray 
of the lamp. 

“You’ve been cad enough — to look at it?” he 
asked. 

“Exactly. And that’s why I think it’s better 
I should return it to its proper place than that 
it should fall into the hands of — shall we say a 
foreign Government?” 

Philips snarled out something only half in- 
telligible. 

“Look here, Philips,” went on Ross, “I’ve won 
this trick hands down, and I’m going to keep it. 
Sit down on that sofa and I’ll tell you why I’ve 
done it, for you don’t go out of here till you 
and I have had an explanation. It’s no use 
looking for your pistol. We’re not backwoods- 
men, but you’ll not pass this door, see?” 

And he clenched his fist with a meaning gesture. 
Philips shrugged his shoulders and sat down, put- 
ting his hand in his pocket. Ross made a for- 
ward movement. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


285 


“You needn’t excite yourself,” said Philips, 
sarcastically; “I only want my flask. Your 
methods have somewhat shaken me. Now, per- 
haps you’ll go on with the farce.” 

Ross gave a little laugh. 

“You’re right,” he said; “it is a bit of a farce 
as it stands, though it might have ended as a 
tragedy. I’ll tell you the whole thing straight, 
and then you’ll see it’s best to have an understand- 
ing. I found out, no matter how, that you were 
getting young Wrenfield under your thumb. 
You discovered he was in queer street, and you 
evidently made up your mind to take advantage 
of it. How much did you offer him to bring this 
plan of the proposed division of territory in Africa 
down here to-night?” 

“Oh, go on,” said Philips; “you’re wasting time 
asking questions. I didn’t understand you were a 
member of the secret police. I thought you were 
a parson.” 

“Parsons have a certain amount of police work 
to do sometimes,” replied Ross, dryly. “I had to 
save Wrenfield from disgrace. That’s why I came 
out to-night. I presume you could name a fair 
price for this precious document — somewhere 
over the Channel — but it isn’t worth the price of 
his ruin, see?” 


£86 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


Philips twirled his moustache again. 

“I must confess, Ross,” he said, with an un- 
pleasant little smile, “that you have quite lost 
your vocation. I don’t know, even now, whether 
your object was not an ulterior one. If it is , I 
might suggest that we should go halves in the 
transaction.” 

Ross bit his lip. 

“I’d burn the beastly thing before your face 
only that I want Wrenfield to have the satis- 
faction of handling and destroying it. And 
it’s no use trying to put me out of temper. I 
told you that you and I are going to have an un- 
derstanding.” 

“Delighted, I’m sure,” replied Philips, “though 
I scarcely see what it is. What do you propose to 
do? I might point out that if you think of taking 
any steps against me it would be useless. You 
would only expose Wrenfield, and I have not 
broken the law in any way. I hope I make things 
plain. ” 

“Perfectly. I understood that from the first, 
and I have no intention of letting things go any 
farther.” 

“If that’s the case, need we detain one another? 
I acknowledge myself beaten.” 

“Wait a bit,” said Ross, very quietly; “there’s 


LEFT IN CHARGE 287 

some one else whom this matter concerns besides 
Wrenfield.” 

“Who?” 

“Your step-daughter.” 

Philips started. 

“She has nothing whatever to do with it!” 
he exclaimed; “she knows absolutely nothing.” 

A triumphant look came into the eyes of 
the parson. He had gained the very informa- 
tion he wanted. And that was not the fact 
that Mildred was innocent — he had never 
doubted that — but the truth that Philips 
had evidently been hit in his most vulnerable 
spot. 

He pushed the advantage home immediately. 

“Would you like me to tell her?” 

Philips sprang to his feet at once. 

“You cur!” he cried; “she wouldn’t believe you 
if you did.” 

Ross looked at him searchingly and then said, 
very slowly: 

“ I should not dream of telling her — from my 
own point of view. But I’m glad to see you re- 
sent the thought of it so strongly.” 

“Why?” 

Ross thought carefully before he replied by an- 
other question 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“Why did you play such a dirty game if you 
didn’t want her to know anything about it?” 

The other man sat down on the sofa again, a 
puzzled expression on his face. 

“I don’t understand,” he said. 

“You’re fond of Mildred, aren’t you?” 

He shot the question at Philips suddenly, only 
to receive the unexpected retort. 

“Are you?” 

“Yes, I am,” he admitted. 

“That’s it, is it?” cried the other. “I’ve been a 
fool not to see it, though it came into my mind. 
Just because you’re a penniless curate, you were 
afraid to play straight. You thought I would 
refuse, and you’re right. I would have. And 
so you watched and schemed to get me into your 
power and strike a bargain, you damned hypo- 
crite. And she was to be the price of it. But I 
tell you I’ll not consent. I’d lay the whole thing 
before her first, if only to make her see what a 
humbug you are.” 

Ross took a step forward. 

“What in heaven’s name do you mean, man? 
What are you driving at?” 

“ I mean that you want to marry Mildred, but, 
by God, you never shall.” 

Ross fell back, his face turned ghastly white, 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


289 


his breath came quick and fast. He was labour- 
ing under some strong emotion. 

“ Philips, 1 ” he ejaculated, “you don’t know what 
you’re talking about.” 

Philips looked at him in astonishment. 

“You’ve just said you were fond of her.” 

“Not that way, you fool,” cried the other, his 
eyes blazing; “I’ve never said or done anything to 
make you think that — or her either, I pray God. 
You — you asked me the simple question. Of 
course I — I — like her — but not like that. I 
like her — because — she’s — she’s just an inno- 
cent child. And she thinks you innocent too. 
Can’t you see it, man? You say you love her, 
and I think you do. And you know she loves you, 
and is happy. Why have you done this, then? 
Why do you chance the wrecking of her happiness 
by playing the spy? In her sight you’re a clean 
living man. What would happen if she knew 
what you really are? Would you drag her down 
to the same level? I’d see you shouldn’t. 
Do you think she’d live with you if she knew? 
What is it you want? Money, I suppose. Look 
here, then, I’m not a rich man, but I’ve made a 
bit of a pile over yonder, and I’d willingly pay you 
the price you were going to get out of this to see 
you clean and her happy.” 


290 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


He stopped, leaning against the wall, his breath 
coming quick and fast with his emotion. Philips 
looked at him long and strangely. Then he said, 
very quietly: 

“Ross, you’re a queer chap. I tell you plainly 
I was wondering if you’d gone mad. I can’t make 
you out. Is it a sermon?” 

“Yes,” replied Ross hoarsely, “it’s a sermon, 
and I never found one harder to preach.” 

Mechanically, Philips drew out his cigar case, 
selected a cigar, cut it, and lit it. 

“I can’t make you out,” he said. “I can’t see 
what your motive is.” 

“Mildred’s happiness and your own honour.” 

“Yes — but zvhy?” 

Ross, obeying the same instinct, true to the 
smoker, of the other man, produced his pipe, 
filled it — a little awkwardly, and said — just 
as if nothing had passed between them: 

“A light, please.” 

Philips, who still held his match-box in his hand, 
struck a vesta and handed it to his companion. 

“Afraid your arm hurts you,” he said. “ Sorry.” 

“It’s all right,” growled Ross, lighting his pipe. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” went on 
Philips. 

“No. And I shan’t.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


291 


The two men looked at one another, smoking 
in absolute silence. A stranger coming in at that 
moment would have detected no sign of quarrel 
between them. 

“Surely I am justified in asking?” suddenly said 
Philips. 

“Not so much as I am in refusing to answer.” 

Again there was the silent duel. Ross broke it 
this time. 

“Come,” he said, “what were you going to make 
out of this?” 

“Three thousand pounds,” replied the other. 

Ross nodded. 

“All right,” he said, “if it’s worth three thou- 
sand to live clean from now — IT1 square it.” 

“But,” said Philips, smoking a little faster, 
“the queer thing is that I don’t want it. Pve a 
thousand a year as it is.” 

“Then why the dickens did you try to ruin 
young Wrenfield?” 

“I didn’t. It wouldn’t have ruined him. He 
didn’t know what I really wanted it for. And 
he’d never have been found out. But I played 
this game because I couldn’t help it.” 

Ross gave a grunt. 

“Look here,” said Philips, flicking the ash from 
his cigar, “I’ll tell you the simple truth. I’ve 


292 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


lived by my wits most of my life and the habit of 
taking advantage of opportunity has been my 
strong point. Fve punted on dead certainties. 
Promoted companies. Speculated on political 
information — all sorts of things. Shady, many 
of ’em, very likely. When Mildred left school, 
however, Pd determined to give it all up. Pm 
not ashamed of saying I love the girl as much as if 
I were really her father. So I left knocking about 
the continent and came down here — out of 
harm’s way. I felt I owed it to her. Then the 
chance came — only a chance, mind you.” 

“Go on,” said Ross. 

“I discovered that young Wrenfield was pri- 
vate secretary to Lord Brook. There were treaty 
arrangements. Well — if I could get hold of 
them I could make a bit.” 

And he shrugged his shoulders. 

“And you say Wrenfield doesn’t know?” 

“He thinks I’m interested in a concession. 
That’s all. Question of taking up shares.” 

“How did you get hold of him? Mind you — 
I know you made inquiries, but that’s my busi- 
ness.” 

“I found he was in debt — and brought up his 
I 0 U’s. A friend of mine holds ’em — and he’s 
pressing Wrenfield.” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


293 


“I see,” said Ross thoughfully, “and you bribed 
him?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Has he the money?” 

“ I was going to send it to-morrow.” 

“And now?” 

Philips thought a moment. 

“Are you going to take him back those plans?” 

“Yes.” 

“What shall you tell him?” 

“ That no one has seen them but myself — and 
the truth, that I knew he brought them here.” 

“And if he sends them or brings them to me 
again?” 

“He won’t. I shall point out the danger of it.” 

“Then I can’t pay him.” 

“No, he wouldn’t take it.” 

“He’ll think me a bad lot.” 

“Bound to — when he sees things in a right 
light. 

“Humph! There’s no more to be done, then?” 

“Oh, yes, there is.” 

“What?” 

“Let him down easy over those IOU’s. Give 
him time to pay in installments. He’ll under- 
stand — even if it only comes from your agent.” 

Philips smoked vigorously. 


294 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“ Awkward if I ever meet him,” he said, pres- 
ently. 

“You needn’t.” 

“Eh?” 

Ross gave a jerk over his shoulder with his 
thumb. 

“Clear out of this?” asked Philips. 

“Quite so. You don’t want Mildred to stand 
the risk of finding out? She might, here. I take 
it you’ll chuck the game — for her sake. ” 

Philips looked at him again, twirling his mous- 
tache. Then he gave a little forced laugh. 

“You’re a queer chap, as I said before. But 
I wish I knew what ” 

“Don’t ask.” 

Then he suddenly held out his hand. Slowly 
and half reluctantly, Philips took it. 

“You might tell her, some day or other,” said 
Ross, “that I was a — bit of a friend to her. 
Eh?” 

“I suppose you are — though I can’t under- 
stand you. Anyway you’ve preached me a ser- 
mon which I shan’t forget.” 

“There’s nothing more to be said then. Here’s 
your barker — I say, I wish you’d tie this up for 
me. I did it rather clumsily.” 

And in the white ray of the electric lamp, 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


295 


Philips calmly bound up the other’s arm. Ross 
looked at the wound critically when the handker- 
chief was off and said, nonchalantly: 

“Told you it wasn’t much — only a scratch. 
It’ll heal in a day or two.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Never mind. I expect your head’s aching a 
bit. Well, we’d best get back.” 

And, as the two men went out of the door, 
Philips offered Ross a cigar. 


CHAPTER XX 


The next morning Ross walked into Wellborough 
and took train to town. He found his way to the 
official residence of Lord Brook and asked to 
see Harry Wrenfield. In a few minutes that 
young man came into the private waiting 
room where Ross had been shown, expressing, 
by a little gesture, some surprise at the sight of 
his visitor. 

“What’s up with your arm?” he asked, for 
Ross was wearing it in a sling. 

“Oh, nothing very much. Hurt it a little, 
that’s all. I ran up this morning to see you, 
Wrenfield. You can give me a little time?” 

Wrenfield gave a glance at the clock on the 
mantelpiece. 

“We are very busy this morning, but ” 

“I won’t keep you long. But it’s important. 
Are we likely to be disturbed?” 

“No,” said the other, with a puzzled look. 

“All the same — let me just turn the key.” 

And he rose from his seat and locked the door. 
Wrenfield looked at him keenly as he returned 
296 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


297 


across the room. There was a serious expression 
on the face of the parson. 

“Look here/’ he said, as he sat down, “Pm 
going to have a straight talk with you, Wrenfield. 
And you mustn’t mind it. You’ve been getting 
into difficulties lately.” 

Harry Wrenfield looked up at him sharply. 

“I scarcely see that my private affairs are your 
concern,” he replied, “and if you’ve been prying 
into them, I should like an explanation.” 

“Right!” exclaimed the other, with perfect 
good temper; “you naturally think me an inter- 
fering beggar. But I’ll tell you. First of all, 
then, let me put it to you in this way. I’ve 
knocked about and roughed it in this old world 
of ours, and I’ve learned to distrust human nature 
pretty considerably at times. And I came across 
a chap since I’ve been at Adlington who succeeded 
in arousing my suspcions, though he wasn’t aware 
of it; and, moreover, he doesn’t know the whole 
truth now, and never will. That particular chap 
is Philips.” 

Wrenfield took a paper knife from the table and 
played with it a little nervously. His face grew 
a shade paler. 

“I don’t see what you’re driving at,” he said, 
stiffly. 


298 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“No? Let me put the hypothesis plainly then. 
We will suppose that this man Philips has been 
using his wits — pretty sharp wits, mind you — 
all his life. And to some purpose. He takes a 
house in Adlington, and, quite by chance, he dis- 
covers that some information of peculiar value 
is to be obtained. See? No, please let me go on. 
The only way of obtaining it is through another 
chap. Then comes the problem. How to get 
hold of that other chap. This raises the question: 
is that other chap to be got hold of at all?” 

Wrenfield clutched the paper-knife in his hand 
and sat perfectly still, the pallor spreading over his 
face. 

“He sets to work. He does nothing without 
the most absolute certainty. He finds out that 
the other chap is in a bit of a hole — money owing. 
Action follows information. The other chap sud- 
denly finds his I O U’s have been bought up by an 
outsider. He doesn’t know that this outsider is 
an agent of Philips. How should he?” 

Wrenfield started. 

“You mean to say ” he began, in a hoarse 

whisper. 

“Wait a bit — please . This other chap comes 
walking, unsuspecting, into ground that has been 
absolutely prepared for him. He falls into the 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


299 


trap — it was laid so beautifully. Philips wants 
something of him. Do you know what it was?” 

“How do you know all this?” gasped Wrenfield. 

“Ah, you see the point? Apparently it isn’t 
very much that Philips wants — only a knowl- 
edge of how a division of territory is going to af- 
fect a certain concession. For, mind this, the 
other chap is at bottom a straight man. I mean 
this. If he had ever thought that a particular bit 
of information was likely to go beyond Philips, 
he wouldn’t have let him have it, eh?” 

“Good God — what do you mean?” 

And he leaned forward over the table. 

“He thought Philips wanted to speculate on a 
certainty, didn’t he?” 

“Yes,” whispered the other. 

“Quite so. But Philips took good care not 
to tell him that the certainty was that the Ger- 
man Secret Service would give him three thousand 
pounds for the information.” 

“It’s false!” cried Wrenfield. 

“It’s true,” said the other quietly. “He ad- 
mitted it to me himself.” 

There was a long silence. The perspiration 
stood in beads upon Wrenfield’s forehead. 

“My God!” he exclaimed, “I’m ruined. I 
never thought of it in that way.” 


300 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“I knew you didn’t. Look here, Wrenfield, 
you’ve been an ass, you know.” 

The young man gave a choking sob. 

“ I’d give my right hand — if it could be un- 
done.” 

“All right, old chap. You needn’t mutilate 
yourself; I wanted to give you a good fright first. 
Look here.” 

To the other’s amazement, Ross drew from his 
pocket an envelope, opened it, and produced the 
tracing. 

“ Steady, my boy,” he said ; “ don’t get in a funk. 
I give you my word that no one but myself knows 
the contents, and that it’s quite safe with me.” 

“But — Philips — he — he ” 

“He doesn’t know. He never will know.” 

“But — how did you get it?” 

“I was at Salt Box last night with Philips. I 
had a little argument with him there,” and he 
smiled grimly, “and persuaded him to let me have 
it. He was perfectly reasonable and won’t bother 
you again. The matter’s at an end. Look at 
the thing. Is it correct?” 

“Yes — yes.” 

“Then I want to see you burn it. Put it in 
the fire.” 

The two men watched it burn to ashes. Ross 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


301 


poked these ashes to fragments among the red hot 
coals. Then he turned to Wrenfield and said, 
gravely : 

“ There’s an ugly chapter gone out of your life. 
Best forget it. I shall. You mustn’t ask me for 
details, but I’ll tell you a few things more.” 

And he went on to say, casually, that chance 
had led him to suspect Philips and to be prepared 
for what was going to happen. The young man 
thanked him as well as he was able. He was still 
ghastly pale, realizing the awful escape he had had. 

“Now look here,” said Ross, curtly, “this is all 
there is between you and me. You’re not likely 
to see Philips again in a hurry. I have my own 
reasons for shielding him, and you needn’t curse 
him too viciously. No man’s all bad, and he isn’t 
an exception. As for the money, you won’t be 
pressed. You’ll pay it off in instalments, or, if it’ll 
help you at all, I’ll buy up the bits of paper and 
you can pay me. Think it over and let me know. 
You’re well out of a dickens of a hole, and I don’t 
think you’ll ever tumble into one like it again.” 

“I won’t, I assure you I won’t,” replied Wren- 
field earnestly. “I can’t say how grateful I 


“Oh, that’s all right,” broke in Ross, “I’d 
have done the same for any chap. Only there’s 


302 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


one question I want to ask you. Why did Philips 
make you take the thing down there yourself? 
Why didn’t you post it?” 

“He wouldn’t hear of it,” said Wrenfield; “he 
declared there was always a risk in the post. He’s 
found out that Luke Mills, the Adlington post- 
man, read his post cards, and he said he wouldn’t 
chance his handling anything so important.” 

“Umph! Outstretched a point this time. Jolly 
lucky for you. Now, remember that he and you 
and I are the only chaps who know anything of 
this — bar one,” he added, “but that don’t 
count.” 

“You don’t mean his step-daughter?” 

Ross turned on him quite angrily. 

“No,” he said shortly, “she doesn’t know. 
Don’t drag her in, please. I alluded to some one 
who helped me, but he didn’t know what the game 
was, and he never will. Nor will he split about 
what he does know. I’ll see to that. You go 
back to your work with a clean sheet, old chap. 
Good-bye.” 

The other wrung his hand. 

“I shall never forget what you’ve done for me. 
I ” 

“Oh, hold your tongue, man. You’re all right 


now.' 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


303 


And before the young man could further express 
his gratitude, Ross had slipped out of the room. 

He grinned as he walked along the street. “I 
was a bit abrupt, I know,” he said to himself, 
“but he had to have a fright. He’ll never for- 
get it either. Funny world this. One gets a lot 
in a day’s work sometimes.” 

There was one more interview for him in that 
particular day’s work. Later on, as he came walk- 
ing into the village from Wellborough, he overtook 
Mildred Bruce. 

“I’m glad I saw you,” she said, as she shook 
hands; “I wanted to say good-bye. We’re going 
away to-morrow, Mr. Ross.” 

“That’s very sudden isn’t it?” 

“Yes. Father only made up his mind about it 
yesterday — just like him, you know.” 

“Where are you going to?” 

“The Engadine — just for a few weeks, you 
know. Father seemed to think a change would 
do us both good, though there’s nothing the matter 
with me! ” 

“You’re looking forward to it?” 

“Awfully. I’ve been getting my skates ready, 
you know. I mean to have a ripping time.” 

“I — we shall miss you. Miss Wrenfield will, 
I’m sure.” 


304 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“I must run in and say good-bye to her to- 
morrow and tell her she must get some one else 
to take my class. We don’t go till the afternoon. 
We shall stay the night in town and take the morn- 
ing boat train.” 

They walked along together. He was un- 
usually silent. 

“ Shall you be here when we come back?” she 
asked him presently. He started. Evidently 
Philips had not told her all the arrangements — 
that they were leaving Adlington for good. 

“My time will probably be up about the be- 
ginning or middle of March,” he replied. “The 
Vicar is hoping to return before Easter, and then, 
of course, I must go.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I don’t expect we shall 
be back so soon. Father talks of going on 
to the Italian lakes. Then I shan’t see you 
again?” 

“No,” said Ross, slowly and gravely, “you won’t 
see me again. I haven’t any plans yet, but I 
shouldn’t wonder if I made up my mind to return 
to Australia. I’m not sure that England is quite 
the place for me.” 

“Oh, don’t say that!” she exclaimed; “they 
like you awfully here, you know.” 

He smiled a little grimly. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


305 


“But I can’t stay here, you see — I’m only a 
stranger and a pilgrim.” 

They had reached the gate of Hill Croft and 
stopped in front of it. 

“Won’t you come in and have tea — for the 
last time?” she asked. 

He shook his head. 

“I’m afraid I can’t. I have some work to do.” 

“Then I’m afraid it is good-bye, Mr. Ross.” 

“Yes,” he said, as he took her hand, “it’s good- 
bye. And you’ll let me just add something to it 
— in my capacity of a — priest and as a privilege 
of age.” 

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes opening a 
little wider as she looked him straight in the face. 

“Only, God bless you, my child — and to tell 
you I’ll not forget to pray for you.” 

“Thank you,” she said; “I know you mean it. 
I shall always remember how nice you’ve been to 
me. Good-bye.” 

“God bless you,” he repeated, pressing her 
hand. 

He stood watching her as she walked up the 
path to the door. She turned and waved her 
hand to him just as she opened it. He raised his, 
as he did at the conclusion of a service, with the 
gesture of pronouncing a blessing. And some- 


306 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


thing shone in his eyes as he went on his way 
toward the village. 

“It had to be so,” he muttered to himself, “it 
was the only way out of it. But thank God I 
came to Adlington, all the same. And thank God 
too I didn’t have to tell Philips. They’ll neither 
of them ever know now.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


As she came into the room, Gertrude Wrenfield 
was torn between two conflicitng passions oc- 
casioned by the two letters she had received that 
morning. The one was from the Rural Dean 
telling her that he had received a letter from his 
friend absolutely substantiating the story of the 
divorce; the other was from her brother — just 
a brief line saying that he was out of the wood and 
that, though he could not give her the details, he 
would like her to know that he owed his salvation 
to the Reverend Howard Ross, who, he added, 
“is a man in a thousand.” 

She had acted upon the first letter. All her 
life, in any case of parochial difficulty, she had 
never hesitated to go straight to the point at once. 
Her character was so thoroughly honest. And she 
had never yet flinched 'from a duty. So she had 
sent a note, immediately after breakfast, to Ross 
asking him to come, if he could, and see her that 
morning. And now that he was come, she 
was bracing herself for the interview. There 
must be a clearing up of things, an understand- 
307 


308 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


ing. In the absence of her father the task was 
hers. For the sake of the parish, for the 
sake of Mildred Bruce, this thing had to be 
done, however unpleasant and painful the doing 
of it. 

She felt, as she entered the room, that her face 
turned pale. She felt the little catch in her 
breath as she took his hand and said good morn- 
ing to him. She felt the penetrating gaze of his 
frank eyes. And she knew that this man was 
more to her than any other man in the world 
— and yet, there was the horrible stain upon his 
character. 

To begin with, her womanly sympathy went out 
to him at once. He still wore his arm in a sling. 

“You are hurt;” she said, “I hope it is nothing 
serious. ” 

He laughed. 

“Nothing at all, thanks,” he replied. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

“Something knocked up against my arm, 
that’s all,” he answered curtly, bringing his jaws 
together with a snap as he said it, as if to effect- 
ually bar any further questions. 

“I wanted to see you this morning — for two 
reasons, Mr. Ross,” she began, “and I thought 
you would not mind coming?” 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


309 


“Of course not — with the greatest of pleasure.” 

“First of all I want to thank you very much 
indeed.” 

“To thank me?” 

“I had a letter from Harry this morning. I 
don’t know what you’ve done. He doesn’t tell 
me. But he says you have saved him from a very 
great trouble.” 

Ross bowed his head gravely. 

“I promised you I would stand his friend if I 
could. And chance favoured me.” 

“It is so good of you. How did you ” 

He broke in abruptly. 

“You won’t ask me, will you, please? I was 
able to give him a bit of a leg up, you see. It 
wasn’t much.” 

“May I ask one question?” 

“I don’t promise to answer it.” 

“My brother was in money difficulties. I was 
going to have told you. Did you — did you help 
him — in that way?” 

“ I have lent him nothing — I think that is 
what you mean. I only showed him a way out. 
For his sake please don’t ask me any more. I 
didn’t think he would say anything about my 
little share in it.” 

She looked at him. He was too frank to de- 


310 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


ceive her entirely, and she knew that he was keep- 
ing back more than he hinted at. 

“Thank you very much,” she said, quietly; “I 
knew you would be Harry’s friend when I asked 
you.” 

“And I wanted to because you asked me.” 

Her eyes fell before his. She looked down on 
the ground for a moment or two before she said : 

“You are so kind — you have been so kind to 
all of us, that it is very difficult for me to say what 
I must say. I want to tell you something — 
something I have heard about you. Oh, believe 
me,” she went on earnestly, “it was not in idle 
gossip. I would willingly have been spared it. 
But I had to hear it.” 

His jaw was set very square now, and there was 
a deeply penetrating look in his eyes as he turned 
to her. 

“Who has been saying things about me?” he 
asked, in a hard voice. 

“Mr. Harper — the Rural Dean,” she replied. 

“I do not even know him. And what has he 
been saying, please?” 

“It is about your past life. You’ll forgive me 
if I speak frankly?” 

“You must speak frankly,” he said. 

“He told me that he had heard you had been 


LEFT IN CHARGE 311 

divorced. That your real name was Ross- 
Trevor.” 

She stopped. There was silence for a few mo- 
ments. Then he said, still in the same hard voice: 

“Go on, please. I want to know all he told 
you.” 

“He said that the action had been taken by 
your wife against you; that there was another 
woman, and that you had made no defence. He 
said that you had left England in disgrace and 
changed your name.” 

It was agony for her to tell him all this. Her 
face had grown crimson. He was not helping her 
in the least. 

“Is that all?” he asked. 

“He said that he knew some one who was sure 
of it.” 

“I see. Incontestable evidence.” 

\nd he laughed, shortly. 

“I could not believe him,” she went on; “I 
told him so, until I heard from him this morning 
and he says he is certain of it. That is why I 
asked you to come.” 

“Why did he tell you at all?” 

“He thought I ought to know. My father is 
away, and he seemed to think that I was in charge 
of the parish.” 


312 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“I am in charge of the parish,” he said, bluntly. 

She looked at him. 

“I know.” 

“Miss Wrenfield,” he went on, “don’t you think 
he ought to have come to me with this?” 

She hesitated. 

“Do you know,” he said, “that very often the 
worst injury that one man can do to another is to 
play the coward to him? I want to meet this 
man Harper if only to tell him that there’s more 
pluck in your little finger than in the whole of his 
carcass. You show real grit. And I thank you 
for it.” 

“What have I done?” 

“Faced me like a m like a true woman. 

You faced me before when you thought I’d done 
wrong. You face me now when there’s a wrong 
over my head a thousand times worse than sitting 
in the bar of the ‘Wheatsheaf,’ and I tell you — 
I thank you. But I don’t think much of your 
Rural Dean.” 

“He acted for the best — I’m sure hethoughtso.” 

“Then I’m sorry for him. Now, what do you 
want to know? Ask me frankly, and I’ll tell you 
frankly.” 

Then she turned her eyes upon him and put the 
question that had been troubling her very soul. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


313 


“Is it true?” 

“Yes,” he replied, without a moment’s hesi- 
tation, “every bit of it.” 

There was a long silence. She could not speak. 
She had hoped to the last, with a woman’s hope 
against the inevitable, that the whole tale was a 
ghastly slander. And now she had the ugly, bald 
truth from his own lips. 

Presently she broke the silence, almost whis- 
pering. 

“What became of your wife?” 

“She married again. No; don’t blame her. 
She was innocent. Remember, I told you the 
story is true.” 

He threw her back again upon the relentless 
fact of his own guilt. His face was set firm and 
his eyes never flinched as he looked at her. 

“Come,” he said, “you’ve had the pluck to tell 
me all this. Go on; I know you want to ask me a 
question. And I promise to answer.” 

Then her sense of duty asserted itself; she 
looked up at him once more, her lips quivering ' 
a little. 

“Yes, I do want to ask you a question,” she 
said; “you say all this is true. I do not know — 

I cannot fathom it all. But there is just this. 
With this sin upon your life did you never think 


314 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


— did you never see the awful position of becom- 
ing a clergyman? Hasn’t the Church always 
taught what our Lord said Himself — that — 
that the divorced must work out, alone, the con- 
sequences of their sin?” 

“In plain words you want to ask me if I have 
any compunction in having taken Holy Orders?” 

“Yes,” she said. 

“None whatever,” he replied. 

“Oh!” 

Again there was a long silence. He waited. 

“I cannot understand,” she said; “I should 
have thought that no man who has done — what 
you have done — could ever have reconciled the 
part of his becoming a priest of the Church of 
Christ in his conscience. I cannot understand.” 

“I know you cannot,” he answered, grimly, 
“but I have a conscience, nevertheless. When 
you have asked the question I want you to ask, I 
may be able to make you understand.” 

“There is another question?” she said, faintly. 

“Go on.” 

“If you can satisfy your conscience in this 
matter, can you in another?” 

“What?” 

“Surely you know what I mean?” 

He shook his head. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


315 


“Would you have married another woman — 
without telling her all this? And could you have 
married her, knowing that you have a wife living 
— a wife that is yours by the law of God whatever 
the law of the realm may say?” 

A grim smile lit up his features for a moment. 

“You ask two questions,” he said; “let me an- 
swer one at a time. I should have told the woman 
I want to marry everything. You think my con- 
science is seared. Anyway Fve a bit of honesty 
left in me.” 

“Have you told her?” 

She shot out the question rapidly. He looked 
puzzled. 

“I don’t understand you.” 

“Have you told Mildred Bruce?” 

He gave a violent start. Now that she had 
come to the point a cold clutch seemed to seize 
her very heart. He leaned back in his chair, 
and looked at her intently, a deeply pained ex- 
pression upon his face. 

“You have made a very great mistake,” he 
said, speaking very slowly; “Mildred Bruce is 
the last person in the world to whom I would tell 
my life’s history. It would only bring her un- 
happiness. For I could not tell her this without 
an attempt to clear myself. And if I cleared my- 


316 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


self I should only make her despise the memory 
of one dear to her. And if I did not clear myself 
she would only despise me. It is the problem 
which I have been trying to work out, but there is 
only one solution to it, and that is silence. I 
know I can trust you. You see, Mildred is my 
own daughter.” 

“Oh!” she gasped, leaning forward. 

“Mr. Harper does not appear to have known 
that there was a child — and that my wife was 
given the custody of it?” he asked, a little 
bitterly. 

She shook her head. 

“Forgive me,” she said; “how was I to know? 
And I thought ” 

“Yes — I see. I was going to have told you,” 
he w^ent on, very quietly. 

“You were going to have told me?” she asked, 
her eyes opening in wonder. 

He smiled a little. 

“ I am still answering the first of those two ques- 
tions,” he said; “the second needs no answer. 
Mildred’s mother died years ago.” 

She looked at him. A little colour crept into 
her pale cheeks. 

“When did you know — about Mildred?” she 
asked. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


317 


“When I met her here. I guessed the truth. 
I found I was right.” 

“Does — does Mr. Philips know?” 

“No. There was a time — only a couple of 
days ago — when I thought I should be obliged to 
tell him. Thank God I didn’t have to. He still 
thinks Mildred’s mother was a widow when he 
married her. I found out that she evidently told 
him nothing. She had taken her maiden name of 
Bruce, again, after the divorce. Mine wasn’t good 
enough for her,” he said bitterly. “Is it not bet- 
ter to keep silent? For both their sakes? I have 
seen my child and I love her. But my very love 
must make a sacrifice.” 

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “I see it all 
now.” 

“And they are leaving to-day,” he went on 
abruptly. 

“Leaving?” 

“For a holiday in Switzerland. And, somehow, 
I don’t think they will ever return to Adlington.” 

“Why?” 

He thought a little. 

“Well,” he said presently, “Philips has taken 
me into his confidence. His life will call him 
away from Adlington. Some day I may tell you 
why. Not now.” 


318 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


There was a pained, puzzled expression on 
Gertrude Wrenfield’s face. So far Ross had re- 
moved one haunting fear from her mind. But 
still, there he sat, self-acknowledged in all the 
ignominy of that monstrous charge. He had 
admitted everything. The tragedy of it seemed 
so hopeless. Yet there was one dim loophole 
of escape. What had he meant by saying that if 
he had told Mildred he would have wanted to 
have cleared himself? Could he? She put the 
question to him with a little thrill of eagerness in 
her voice. 

“Have you nothing to say to all this? To 
explain ?” 

A sweeter look spread itself over his strong 
features. 

“That is the question I wanted,” he said. 
“Will you be my judge?” 

“Is it my place?” she asked. 

“Yes. You have accused me. I want to 
know what you will do if you think me guilty. 
Ah, I know your thoughts. It seemed to you 
when you had that letter this morning that I was 
not fit to be in charge of Adlington. Tell me?” 

“Yes,” she admitted. “I could not help it. 
But it did. That is why I told you.” 

“I know. Twice in my life I have been judged. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


319 


Once by the Bishop who ordained me. The other 
time by your own Bishop, who knew my story. 
He was with me at Cambridge, and my greatest 
friend. Did it never occur to you that my or- 
dination was a question of the Bishop’s conscience 
as well as mine?” 

She reddened. 

“If I have done you an injustice ” 

“No,” he broke in; “let me tell you, then judge 
me.” 

He paused, leaned back in his chair again, and 
told his story. 

“We were both very young,” he said, “and I 
suppose it was a silly, childish thing, but we 
thought we loved one another. After we were 
married we found out the mistake. We had two 
or three years of misery. Very likely I was a fool. 
I wanted to go my own way, and I went it. Oh, 
it was innocent enough, God knows. I was a 
student in those days with an ambition to make a 
name in the world by writing. She only thought 
of society and amusement. I detested them both. 
And she hated my studious ways and the hours I 
gave to research. Neither gave in. So we drifted 
apart, and quarrelled, and there was hell in our 
lives. It was one day, after we had been nagging 
at one another, she said she wished we were di- 


320 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


vorced. In my temper I agreed with her. That 
started it, I suppose. 

“There was another woman, but not as you 
think — I swear it was not as you think. We were 
only friends. She was intellectual, and, well, 
I suppose I saw too much of her. Anyhow it 
gave my wife the chance she wanted. So she 
brought the action — cruelty and infidelity. 
I tried to stop it, but too late. I offered a 
separation. She would not hear of it. I strained 
every nerve to shield the other woman. I 
didn’t want her name dragged through the mud, 
as it would have been had I defended the case. 
It had to be an affair of lawyers. These things 
are done. Her name was kept out of it, so far as 
the newspapers were concerned. I think the 
judge understood. Anyhow, there was no de- 
fence and I was held to have admitted everything. 
What was the consequence? My life was broken. 
My friends shunned me. I was a disgraced 
man. So I went to the Colonies to hide my head 
there. 

“My name had been Ross. I added the Trevor 
when I was given by will a life interest in an estate 
on that condition. But now the money was 
nothing to me. I dropped the ‘Trevor’ to become 
less marked in the world, and forfeited the estate. 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


321 


Surely there was no harm in that. I was only 
keeping to my own name, after all. 

“I lived a rough life out there. I’ve told you 
snatches of it — digging — sheep-farming — any- 
thing. Then, as the years went on and time 
softened things a little, I began to feel a longing to 
do something in the world before I pegged out. 
I knew that my wife was dead, and I wanted to 
bury the dead past with her. I had a university 
degree. I felt the call coming to me to do a bit 
of work for my fellow-creatures. I’d always had 
my faith, even in the darkest days, and I felt it 
strong in me then. Well, the end of it was I went 
to the Bishop, told him the whole tale, and asked 
if he would ordain me. At first he hesitated. 
But he wrote home to the Bishop of Norchester — 
he was Dean of Frattenbury then — and asked 
him about me. He always was a man, and he 
cabled back to the Bishop the message, ‘Never 
refuse a man whom God gives you.’ So I became 
a clergyman. They were scarce, and I found 
plenty of work to my own liking. 

“Then the home fit came over me. I wanted 
to see the old country again — even as a stranger. 
I came back and put myself in the hands of the 
only friend who knew my story. He sent me 
here. 


322 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


“And,” he added, his mouth hardening once 
again, “to him I am accountable. Not to the 
Rural Dean.” 

“Or to me?” she asked. 

“No,” he said, “not as the priest-in-charge of 
Adlington.” 

There was a long pause again. Then Gertrude 
Wrenfield said: 

“You have suffered very much. I am so sorry 
for you!” 

“Is that your judgment?” he asked. 

“I do mean it, really I do,” she replied. 

“But it only amounts to pity,” he said, with 
just a touch of bitterness in his voice, “and Pve 
never asked for pity yet from man or woman. I 
want something more. I want you to tell me if 
you think I am what the world thought me — 
what the man who hadn’t the pluck to come to me 
thinks of me behind my back. I’m not asking 
you to exonerate me in a single point in the past. 
I made a mistake, and I paid for it. But I paid 
for it in what I honestly believed to be the best 
current coin. You asked me if I would have mar- 
ried another woman without telling her all this. 
I told you I would have told her. I want to 
know from your lips whether you believe I should 
have been justified in not only telling her but 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


323 


asking her to marry me. And I want to know 
whether you think a pure and good woman would 
have spurned me after I had told her. That’s 
the judgment I want to know.” 

Her lips trembled a little. She looked down upon 
the ground. 

“If she loved you — ” she said. “I think — 
all this — would make no difference.” 

There was a light in his eyes as he leaned for- 
ward. 

“That is why I was going to tell you,” he said. 

“To tell me?” she asked, faintly. 

“I must have told you,” he went on, in a low 
tone, “just because, you see, you are the woman. 
I came here with a broken life and a warped judg- 
ment on your sex. And I found a woman with 
the pluck to face me out of the honest convictions 
of her heart. I discovered her sterling worth, and 
I grew to love her and want her. And I wanted 
her to love me — not to pity me. I’ve told you 
what is in my heart — just that I love you, dear 
— and I ask for your judgment, and when I ask 
for that you know what I want.” 

He had risen from his seat and was standing 
over her, his hand on the back of her chair, look- 
ing down upon her. Slowly she raised her head. 
There were tears standing in her eyes, but they 


324 


LEFT IN CHARGE 


were not the tears of pity. The smile which had 
gathered on her face told this, the smile which 
made her look so beautiful because it had its 
spring in love. 

“You really ask me this?” 

He bent his head still lower, gazing into her 
eyes. 

“ Dearest — you know I do.” 

“I gave you my judgment,” she murmured. 

“Yes.” 

“I said — if she loved you.” 

He sank on his knee beside her, and drew her 
toward him. 

“And you said it because ?” 

“Just because I feel it — just because I love 
you, dear.” 


THE END 


THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 




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